Sheep.
How welcome ’tis to human eye
To see the mead-lands gay with sheep:
How homely is the lambkin’s cry,
How sweet to see them run and leap.
Look, whilst unheeded falls the show’r,
How nimbly each one nips the blade;
And, as the rain-drops trickle o’er
Them, how intent they mind their trade.
Their life-time’s short, but sweet content
Ne’er fails them: on and on they pass,
And as they wander innocent-
Ly yield, and aid the growing grass.
When Dame Aurora steeps the main
With her resistless flood of light,
They’re up, and at their trade again,
And nibble, nibbling till ’tis night.
But when a storm is gathering fast,
See how they’ll seek some shelter’d cove;
How cunningly they’ll shun the blast,
Beneath a hazel-hedge, or grove.
When down at night they gently lie,
Unconscious where the light hath flown,
It may be plann’d for all to die
Before the morrow’s afternoon.
’Tis so!—a sound doth ’lectrify
The timid throng: they congregate;
And, as th’ intruder they espy,
Seem apprehensive of their fate.
Away unto some nook they run,
Or to the angle of the field;
The shepherd marks them one by one,
And one by one they have to yield.
(Perchance it is the month of May):
Their shornèd quarters fat and fleet
Are needed in some other way,—
Are soon, alas! transform’d to meat.
O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so thy life-time would be gall.
Suppose it’s March: the fields[69] are bare;
The hunter’s horn rides on the gale;
And suddenly a fox, or hare,
Comes bounding over hedge or pale,
Then see them how they’ll gather round,
As though some dreadful foe was near;
And mark, when forth the foremost hound
Comes yelping onward, how they fear;
And stand aghast-like—stark and still—
Until the yelpers have flown past,
Until the hunters cross the hill,
And then again seek their repast.
(Now when the distant sportsmen see
The nervous flock haste to the fence,
’Tis known to them with accuracy
The prey hath cross’d, or crossing thence.)
Ah! little think they (but ’tis true)
That, as they heed the fleeting throng,
Those hunters’ coats, red, green, or blue,
Have from such backs as theirs been flung.
Turn, reader, from the blithesome chase
To where the staggering thrust is dealt;
Behold the death-stains on the face,
And see what gory blood is spilt:
Conceive, what thousands in a day
Reel at the shock which lays them low;
That as they hang, as cold as clay,
Ten thousand more receive the blow!
All pity’s fled, when (at the fire,)
Leg, loin, or shoulder’s on the spit,
To grace the table of the squire—
Surrounded by things amply fit.
Where they were born, or how they live,
On what they feed, or how they die,
Or how the little creatures grieve
When on the butcher’s block they lie.
Ne’er strikes th’ attention of the guest,
Host, hostess, scull’ry-maid, nor cook;
It’s—whether it be rightly drest,
And whether “paid,” or on the book.
O! little faithfuls,—eat and drink,
For on to-morrow you must fall:
’Tis good thou hast no thought to think;
Were ’t so, thy lifetime would be gall.
Trip on, lie down and go to sleep,
Run skipfully, or stand ye still;
Feed on, as should ye—pretty sheep,
Until thou deem’st thou’st had thy fill;—
No-one will grudge thee what thou’st ta’en,
For in return thou ’videst us food:
Ah! through the field and narrow lane
Thou’rt hurried to the field of blood.
Thy jackets, shorn, are piled in store,
Or carted to the mart for sale;
Thy wool, O! meek ones (woven o’er),
Adorns the hearth, flaunts in the gale.
In every land, on every sea,
Where commerce traverses the globe,—
’Tis knit in garb’s simplicity;
Knit in the monarch’s choicest robe;
Knit in the infant’s swaddling clothes;
Knit in the mother’s “jaconet;”—[70]
In colours various as the rose,
As various as the violet,
Promiscuous ’sturchion, and (methinks)
Still further—the chrysanthemum,
Punctilious dahlia, hornèd pinks,
The rose-like poppy in full bloom.
Nay, more—geraniums, beauteous things,
The ear-drop fuchsias—every kind,
And that sweet flow’r[71] which gently clings
To where contentment fills the mind[72].—
Not that contentment reigns alone
In the most humble cottages,
But that it is more rarely known
To dwell in gorgeous palaces.
[69] Cornfields.
[70] A kind of knitted jacket for the body.
[71] The woodbine.
[72] The peasant’s cot.
A School Festival.[73]
Among the fern, the chestnut, and the oak,—
Beside the stilly lake and silent brook,—
A host of little boys and maidens play
With pastors, masters, keeping holiday.
Their merry whistle and their shrill-voic’d tongues,
The hip-hurrahs join’d with their youthful songs,
Make one glad concert of unusual mirth—
One happy unison of joy on earth.
They tumble, rumble, on the beauteous lawn,
As free from care as are the swift-foot fawn
That stray beneath yon summer-blooming trees,
And sniff at will the heav’nly-perfum’d breeze.
See how the little rev’lers romp and fall,
Whilst some are racing for the sky-thrown ball:
A stripling, heedless of th’ obscurèd root
Of some large chestnut, trips his nimble foot,
And stumbles; but ’tis only o’er a mound,
Clad with Earth’s velvet, so no harm is found.
There (laughingly) th’ expectant bride,
Is sporting lovingly with him—her pride:
Then sprightly tripping to another, tries
To startle him, who (turning round) espies
Her merry-making face, and laughs consent,—
Whilst she discloses some blithe sentiment.
* * * * *
Look round again: there seems a sweet content
In every eye; in every bosom seems
A heart that beats with love’s enchanting beams.
List to the music of th’ refection bell:
Behold the young ones,—e’en their gestures tell
What speaks it; they come hast’ning to its ting,
And form themselves, adroitly, in a ring
Upon the trodden blade. They sit, and eat,
And quaff. Why should they not?—It is most meet
Those Englanders should well enjoy their treat.
Hear then the thunder of the little throat
Of him, who first doth nail[74] the Pastor’s coat,—
Of them, who follow—anxious for the prize,
Which is held out to greet their longing eyes—
As forth the Pastor runs from tree to tree,
With equal pleasure and sincerity.
* * * * *
Now for the elder ones: they, like the young,
Refresh’d, hie forth and mingle with the throng,
As prone to mirth, apparently as gay
As Spring’s sweet blossoms in the bright noon-day:
Some tune their voices in harmonious glee,
And thus make jub’lant the festivity;
Whilst others, wand’ring o’er the pleasant grounds,
Return to welcome those according sounds,
And bid them echo, with their meet applause,
The blitheful song in honour of the cause.
Again the ball is launch’d upon the green:
But lo!—down west, day’s radiant lamp is seen
In gorgeous amplitude. The hour has come—
The junior host are marshall’d out for home.
God then is prais’d:[75] and, as the heav’ns grow dark,
The deer are left the guardians of the park.
[73] Composed on the occasion of St. Peter’s (Pimlico, London) annual School Festival, held at Bushy Park, Hampton Court, 27th July, 1865.
[74] Make holdfast.
[75] The singing of a hymn.
An Autumnal Day.[76]
When Morn,[77] returning, upward leaps
Into the realms of day—
Re-gilding mountain-tops, and steeps,
Most heav’nward in the sky,
And finding unpropitious clouds
Spread o’er the vast expanse,—
Obscuring from Earth’s mingling crowds
His needed countenance,—
He puts his golden armour on,
Bends his portentous bow,
And sends his arrows quiv’ring down
Direct upon the foe;—
So swift, so pond’rously each beam
Falls on the murky host,
Disconsolation seizes them;
When, gathering to their post,
Again they furiously contend
For the supremacy;
But they, alas! dejected, wend
Their course reluctantly.
* * * * *
Now, whilst the conflict waxed hot,
He sought the briny foam—
Return’d afresh’d, (but they were not),
And cheer’d the peasant’s home;
Or stole across an emerald lawn,
Thus dighting Nature’s face,
And play’d among the bounding fawn,—
Those youngsters of the chase;
Then o’er the woodland, o’er the plain,
Or down the streamlet borne—
Through grassy vales—on to the main,
Where sailors hail blest Morn:
Now back again to the garden spot,
Or to the infant’s cheek—
Whilst rocking in the nursling cot;
Thence to the orchard creek;
Perchance o’er housetops high and low,
Against the village spire,
Or through the fane he deigns to go
And scans the sacred choir;
Then saunters o’er the lonely grave,
Where mingle rich and poor:
Now off again to the crested wave;
Again to the old barn-door.
* * * * *
And now the god ordains to grace
The city; but ’tis vain—
A sluggish mist pervades the space,
While clouds, dispensing rain,
Lay ’cumbent o’er the busy crowd:
At length his portly mien—
Through some one condescending cloud—
Re-animates the scene!
* * * * *
Ah me! methinks those human beings,
Who raise that murm’ring sound,
Are like a myriad little things
Which hither—thither bound—
Unstable as the sandy shore,
As restless as the sea—
Receding, curling, toppling o’er,
For all eternity.
* * * * *
And when he once more skirts the sky—
Down gliding in the west—
Observe the tim’rous clouds which fly,
Carnation’d, to the east:—
O! watch the gorgeous king of day,
Descending, gone from view * * *
Ah! who shall live to rise, and pray,
As he comes round anew?—
And that he will; but who shall see
The god as round he rolls?—
It may be—Immortality
Hath claim’d a thousand souls!
* * * * *
Some live to see the glorious Sun
Descend the great concave;
But thousands, ere the day is done,
Are silent in the grave!!!
[76] This poem is intended to illustrate the Sun’s fleetings on the Earth’s surface, occasioned by the passage of clouds, on a breezy day.
[77] The Sun.
Our Little Brother.[78]
’Tis night! ’tis night! the solemn hour is come;
A storm-toss’d bark, “’lexandra,”’s on the foam:
Sound an alarm ere she is rift!
To Heaven a hundred eyes uplift:
His Answer comes as doubly swift,—
The winds abate; calm is the crested main,
The goodly craft rides on in peace again.
Touch, touch the thread, which stretches land and sea;
Command it bear the news, with accuracy,
Through channels, rivers, lakes, and rills;
Through England’s vales, o’er Scotland’s hills;
Through Ireland’s uplands, creeks, and dells,—
“Ere proud Aurora flush’d the purple East,
The Danish bark was safe, and sleeps at rest.”
Sound, sound the cymbal, sound the silver horn;
Herald afar “a Prince to-day is born:”
Tell Denmark’s King, “Safe is his child,
That the Great God in kindness smil’d;
A nation’s heart is reconciled:”
Tell him “his Daughter is old England’s pride;
That in our love she alway may confide.”
Send forth the word unto Balmoral halls,—
“That pray’rs were said within our sacred walls,
To Him above, the gracious Giver,
For her, for him, and his for ever:
All hail the little princely brother!”
On British hearts, engraven is the word—
“Our crown and country rules with one accord.”
O Lord, inspire the mother’s tender breast,
That she may offer up her thanks, the best;
And have, in Thee, the surest friend,
To-day, and to a distant end;
Down on her children comfort send:
Bless, Thou, the haven which the shelter gave;
Guard sire, and dame, and children to the grave!
[78] Written on the occasion of the birth of Prince George Frederick Ernest Albert, second son of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales, at Marlborough House, Pall Mall, 3rd June, 1865, at 1.18.
The Coming of the Belgians.[79]
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky,
And herald forth to Wimbledon
Our warrior-guests from Belgium-land:
From Belgium land they come, they come
To share with us in Britons’ land
The banquet-board and social home.
Right welcome shall those warriors be
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land,
For they have come across the sea
To Britons’ land, to Britons’ land.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Ring out its welcome in the sky:
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon.
’Tis there our laurels now are won—
Where bloom the gorse’s golden flower,
And where the butterfly, anon,
Doth sport amid the bramble bower;
And where the heather dights the plain,
Where Nature, in its forest trim,
Delights the eye, perfumes the main:
Where every daisy is a gem;
Where soars the cuckoo’s glad ding-dong,
And the sweet blackbird’s merry air;
Aye! where the skylark’s matin song
Is, is of all the sweetest pray’r.
Hoist, Britons, host the banner high! etc.
’Tis there th’ elect of Englishmen,
And Scotland’s fairest sons of might,
Bemake the upland grove and glen,
The pinnacle of fame and fight:
’Tis there Hibernia’s children hie,
Join’d by the men of ancient Wales.
For Honor’s prize each country vie;
Ho! ho! ye plains, ye hills, ye vales;
Ho! ho! my kinsmen, ho! and hail
Our brother Belgians from afar,
Who now (responsive) westward sail,
To join in modern modes of war.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
To join in modern modes of war
They came, our brother Belgians come,
But not for conquest, nor the star
Which desolates the peasant’s home;
For honor, wisdom, love, and truth,—
These are the prizes—these their aim:
Behold those patriots, age and youth,
All marksmen for their country’s fame.
Then welcome them to Wimbledon,
Ye Britons bold and bolder still;
For there the laurels shall be won
By those of most abundant skill.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
’Tis there our countrymen advance
On the high road to royal regard,
For there shall Edward nobly glance
On Britain’s patriotic guard.
Then on! ye willing warriors, on!
Unfurl the standard, lift it high,
And let it wave o’er Wimbledon,—
A beacon to the Belgian eye.
Up with your tents, encamp ye round
“The flaming flag of liberty;”
Send the swift ball forth to the mound;
’Tis won!—whose is the victory? * * *
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high! etc.
Let Record mark this year of grace,
When forth the Belgian from the east,
With glowing heart and beaming face,
Came o’er to share the British feast:
When Britain, lit with loyalty,
Drew forth its chamois as of yore,
And deck’d with right baronialty
The banquet-board with choicest store:
Whereat the best skill’d war-men came,
From highlands, lowlands, vales, and plains;
And where the foremost heard his name
Proclaim’d in proud triumphant strains.
Hoist, Britons, hoist the banner high!—
Blow the blithe horn! blow merrily on;
Proclaim aloud the victory!—
Hurrah! hurrah! for Wimbledon!
[79] Return visit of the Belgian Volunteers (to England), July, 1867.
