But short was even’s placid smile,
My startled soul to charm,
When Nelly lightly skipt the stile,
With milk-pail on her arm:
One careless look on me she flung,
As bright as parting day:
And like a hawk from covert sprung,
It pounc’d my peace away.
THE GIPSY’S CAMP
HOW oft on Sundays, when I’d time to tramp,
My rambles led me to a gipsy’s camp,
Where the real effigy of midnight hags,
With tawny smoked flesh and tatter’d rags,
Uncouth-brimm’d hat, and weather-beaten cloak,
’Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak,
Along the greensward uniforming pricks
Her pliant bending hazel’s arching sticks;
While round-topt bush or briar-entangled hedge,
Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge,
Keep off the bothering bustle of the wind,
And give the best retreat she hopes to find.
How oft I’ve bent me o’er her fire and smoke,
To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke,
While the old Sybil forg’d her boding clack,
Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back;
Oft on my hand her magic coin’s been struck,
And hoping chink, she talk’d of morts of luck:
And still, as boyish hopes did first agree,
Mingled with fears to drop the fortune’s fee,
I never fail’d to gain the honours sought,
And Squire and Lord were purchas’d with a groat.
But as man’s unbelieving taste came round,
She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground,
Wip’d bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist,
While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist,
Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate,
Which like as footboys on her actions wait,
That fortune’s scale should to my sorrow turn
And I one day the rash neglect should mourn;
That good to bad should change, and I should be
Lost to this world and all eternity;
That poor as Job I should remain unblest;—
(Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!)
Of not a hoarded farthing be possest,
And when all’s done, be shov’d to hell at last!
TO THE CLOUDS
O PAINTED clouds! sweet beauties of the sky,
How have I view’d your motion and your rest
When like fleet hunters ye have left mine eye,
In your thin gauze of woolly-fleecing drest;
Or in your threaten’d thunder’s grave black vest,
Like black deep waters slowly moving by,
Awfully striking the spectator’s breast
With your Creator’s dread sublimity,
As admiration mutely views your storms.
And I do love to see you idly lie,
Painted by heav’n as various as your forms,
Pausing upon the eastern mountain high,
As morn awakes with spring’s wood-harmony;
And sweeter still, when in your slumbers sooth
You hang the western arch o’er day’s proud eye:
Still as the even-pool, uncurv’d and smooth,
My gazing soul has look’d most placidly;
And higher still devoutly wish’d to strain,
To wipe your shrouds and sky’s blue blinders by,
With all the warmness of a moon-struck brain,—
To catch a glimpse of Him who bids you reign,
And view the dwelling of all majesty.
THE WOODMAN
DEDICATED TO THE REV. J. KNOWLES HOLLAND.
THE beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead,
Hath clanked four—the woodman’s wak’d again;
And, as he leaves his comfortable bed,
Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane,
And shrugs, and wishes—but ’tis all in vain:
The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego;
His family that oft till eight hath lain,
Without his labour’s wage could not do so.
And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow.