The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet1 and roundelay 2
Sung in the silent green-wood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
Samuel Rogers: 1763-1855. (See page 127.)
TO A SLEEPING INFANT.3
(From "Frost at Midnight.")
DEAR babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersèd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other love
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,*
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in Himself.
Great universal Teacher! He shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
1 canzonet a little part-song.
2 roundelay-a kind of part-song (see page 58).
3 The poet's son, Hartley (see page 95).
4 An allusion to Christ's Hospital, where Coleridge was
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth 1
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge: 1772-1834
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view !
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure ;
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth over-flowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
1 general earth-earth, which bears fruits for all.
2 ardent (for ardently) warmly, eagerly.
3 poised-balanced, tilted (see pp. 64, 102).
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter1 sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hung in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in the well.
Samuel Woodworth: 1785-1842.
An American poet and dramatist, who began life without much education as an apprentice in a printer's office. His reputation mainly rests on his songs, the most popular of which is given above.
EVENING AT THE FARM.
OVER the hill the farm-boy goes;
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree above the spring,
The katydid2 begins to sing;
The early dews are falling;
Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows :
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,-
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
Farther, farther, over the hill,
Faintly calling, calling still,
"Co', boss! co', boss! co', co'!"
Jupiter-the greatest of all the ancient gods. Nectar was the drink of the gods,—and ambrosia their food.
2 katydid a large insect of the cricket kind, which makes a sound nearly resembling the syllables katy-did.
3 mink-a small animal like the weasel.
4 Co' boss!-Come, bossy!-bossy being an American petname for a calf, and sometimes for cattle generally. (Boss is a common Americanism, and means master.)
Into the yard the farmer goes,
With grateful heart at the close of day:
Harness and chain are hung away;
In the waggon-shed stand yoke and plough ;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow;
The pleasant dews are falling ;--
The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet,
And the whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling,-
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co' ! co'!"
While still the cow-boy far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray,"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"
Now to her task the milkmaid goes:
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Lowing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,
While cooling dews are falling ;-
The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milk-maid goes,
"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"
The cheerful milk-maid takes her stool,
And sits and milks in the twilight cool,
Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"
To supper at last the farmer goes:
The apples are pared, the paper read,
The stories are told, then all to bed;
Without, the cricket's ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling;-
The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose:
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milk-maid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring "So, boss! so!"
John Townsend Trowbridge: born, 1827.
An American novelist and poet. Trowbridge was the son of a farmer, but his love for literature led him to abandon agriculture for a life of letters. He soon became known as a writer of popular tales, and his most successful poem, The Vagabonds, published in 1863, greatly added to his reputation. Most of his writings have appeared as contributions to various magazines.
SEVEN TIMES ONE.
(From "Songs of Seven.")
THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven:
I've said my 'seven times' over and over,
Seven times one are seven.
I am old! so old, I can write a letter!
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better,
They are only one times one.
O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! all bright! but your light is failingYou are nothing now but a bow.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven
That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marsh marybuds,1 rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!
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