Oh! dearly do I love “Old Cries”
That touch my heart and bid me look
On “Bough-pots” plucked ’neath summer skies,
And “Watercresses” from the brook.
It may be vain, it may be weak,
To list when common voices speak;
But rivers with their broad, deep course,
Pour from a mean and unmarked source:
And so my warmest tide of soul
From strange, unheeded spring will roll.
“Old Cries,” “Old Cries”—there is not one
But hath a mystic tissue spun
Around it, flinging on the ear
A magic mantle rich and dear,
From “Hautboys,” pottled in the sun,
To the loud wish that cometh when
The tune of midnight waits is done
With “A merry Christmas, gentlemen,
And a Happy New Year—Past one-
O’clock, and a frosty morning!”
And there was a “cry” in the days gone by,
That ever came when my pillow was nigh;
When, tired and spent I was passively led
By a mother’s hand, to my own sweet bed—
My lids grew heavy, and my glance was dim,
As I yawned in the midst of a cradle hymn—
When the watchman’s echo lulled me quite,
With “Past ten o’clock, and a starlight night!”
Well I remember the hideous dream,
When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream,
As I took a wild leap o’er the precipice steep,
And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep.
How I loved to behold the moonshine cold
Illume each well-known curtain-fold;
And how I was soothed by the watchman’s warning,
Of “Past three o’clock, and a moonlight morning!”
Oh, there was music in this “old cry,”
Whose deep, rough tones will never die:
No rare serenade will put to flight
The chant that proclaimed a “stormy night.”
The “watchmen of the city” are gone,
The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone;
We hear no voice at the wintry dawning,
With “Past five o’clock, and a cloudy morning!”
Ah, well-a-day! it hath passed away,
But I sadly miss the cry
That told in the night when the stars were bright,
Or the rain-cloud veiled the sky.
Watchmen, Watchmen, ye are among
The bygone things that will haunt me long.
“Three bunches a penny, Primroses!”
Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring;
When she offers her dew-spangled posies;
The fairest Creation can bring.
“Three bunches a penny, Primroses!”
The echo resounds in the mart;
And the simple “cry” often uncloses
The worldly bars grating man’s heart.
We reflect, we contrive, and we reckon
How best we can gather up wealth;
We go where bright finger-posts beckon,
Till we wander from Nature and Health.
But the “old cry,” shall burst on our scheming,
The song of “Primroses” shall flow,
And “Three bunches a penny” set dreaming
Of all that we loved long ago.
It brings visions of meadow and mountain,
Of valley, and streamlet, and hill,
When Life’s ocean but played in a fountain—
Ah, would that it sparkled so still!
It conjures back shadowless hours,
When we threaded the dark, forest ways;
When our own hand went seeking the flowers,
And our own lips were shouting their praise.
The perfume and tint of the blossom;
Are as fresh in vale, dingle, and glen;
But say, is the pulse of our bosom
As warm and as bounding as then?
“Three bunches a penny,—Primroses!”
“Three bunches a penny,—come, buy!”
A blessing on all the sweet posies,
And good-will to the poor ones who cry.
“Lavender, sweet Lavender!”
With “Cherry Ripe!” is coming;
While the droning beetles whirr,
And merry bees are humming.
“Lavender, sweet Lavender!”
Oh, pleasant is the crying;
While the rose-leaves scarcely stir,
And downy moths are flying,
Oh, dearly do I love “Old Cries,”
Your “Lilies all a-blowing!”
Your blossoms blue, still wet with dew,
“Sweet Violets all a-growing!”
Oh, happy were the days, methinks,
In truth the best of any;
When “Periwinkles, winkle, winks!”
Allured my last, lone penny.
Oh, what had I to do with cares
That bring the frown and furrow,
When “Walnuts” and “Fine mellow Pears”
Beat Catalani thorough.
Full dearly do I love “Old Cries,”
And always turn to hear them;
And though they cause me some few sighs,
Those sighs do but endear them.
My heart is like the fair sea-shell,
There’s music ever in it;
Though bleak the shore where it may dwell,
Some power still lives to win it.
When music fills the shell no more,
’Twill be all crushed and scattered;
And when this heart’s deep tone is o’er,
’Twill be all cold and shattered.
Oh, vain will be the hope to break
Its last and dreamless slumbers;
When “Old Cries” come, and fail to wake
Its deep and fairy numbers! |
