Part 7 (1/2)
When the coy sun, glancing rarely, Pouts and sparkles in the pearly Pendulous dewdrops, twinkling gay On each dancing leaf and spray.
Through your latticed boughs on high, Framed in rosy wreaths, one catches Brief kaleidoscopic s.n.a.t.c.hes Of deep lapis-lazuli In the April-coloured sky.
When the sundown's dying brand Leaves your beauty to the tender Magic spells of moonlight splendour, Glimmering clouds of bloom you stand, Turning earth to fairyland.
Cease, wild winds, O, cease to blow!
Apple-blossom, fluttering, flying, Palely on the green turf lying, Vanis.h.i.+ng like winter snow; Swift as joy to come and go.
_THE MUSIC-LESSON._
A thrush alit on a young-leaved spray, And, lightly clinging, It rocked in its singing As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay; And with liquid shakes, And trills and breaks, Rippled through blossoming boughs of May.
Like a ball of fluff, with a warm brown throat And throbbing bosom, 'Mid the apple-blossom, The new-fledged nestling sat learning by rote To echo the song So tender and strong, As it feebly put in its frail little note.
O blissfullest lesson amid the green grove!
The low wind crispeth The leaves, where lispeth The shy little bird with its parent above; Two voices that mingle And make but a single Hymn of rejoicing in praise of their love.
_THE TEAMSTER._
With slow and slouching gait Sam leads the team; He stoops i' the shoulders, worn with work not years; One only pa.s.sion has he, it would seem-- The pa.s.sion for the horses which he rears: He names them as one would some household pet, May, Violet.
He thinks them quite as sensible as men; As nice as women, but not near so skittish; He fondles, cossets, scolds them now and then, Nay, gravely talks as if they knew good British: You hear him call from dawn to set of sun, ”Goo back! Com on!”
Sam never seems depressed nor yet elate, Like Nature's self he goes his punctual round; On Sundays, smoking by his garden gate, For hours he'll stand, with eyes upon the ground, Like some tired cart-horse in a field alone, And still as stone.
Yet, howsoever stolid he may seem, Sam has his tragic background, weird and wild Like some adventure in a drunkard's dream.
Impossible, you'd swear, for one so mild: Yet village gossips dawdling o'er their ale Still tell the tale.
In his young days Sam loved a servant-maid, A girl with happy eyes like hazel brooks That dance i' the sun, cheeks as if newly made Of pouting roses coyly hid in nooks, And warm brown hair that wantoned into curl: A fresh-blown girl.
Sam came a-courting while the year was blithe, When wet browed mowers, stepping out in tune, With level stroke and rhythmic swing of scythe, Smote down the proud gra.s.s in the pomp of June, And wagons, half-tipped over, seemed to sway With loads of hay.
The elder bush beside the orchard croft Brimmed over with its bloom like curds and cream; From out grey nests high in the granary loft Black cl.u.s.ters of small heads with callow scream Peered open-beaked, as swallows flashed along To feed their young.
Ripening towards the harvest swelled the wheat, Lush cherries dangled 'gainst the latticed panes; The roads were baking in the windless heat, And dust had floured the glossy country lanes, One sun-hushed, light-flushed Sunday afternoon The last of June.
When, with his thumping heart all out of joint, And pulses beating like a stroller's drum, Sam screwed his courage to the sticking point And asked his blus.h.i.+ng sweetheart if she'd come To t.i.tsey Fair; he meant to coax coy May To name the day.
But her rich master snapped his thumb and swore The girl was not for him! Should not go out!
And, whistling to his dogs, slammed-to the door Close in Sam's face, and left him dazed without In the fierce suns.h.i.+ne, blazing in his path Like fire of wrath.
Unheeding, he went forth with hot wild eyes Past fields of feathery oats and wine-red clover; Unheeded, larks soared singing to the skies, Or rang the plaintive cry of rising plover; Unheeded, pheasants with a startled sound Whirred from the ground.
On, on he went by acres full of grain, By trees and meadows reeling past his sight, As to a man whirled onwards in a train The land with spinning hedgerows seems in flight; At last he stopped and leant a long, long while Against a stile.
Hours pa.s.sed; the clock struck ten; a hush of night, In which even wind and water seemed at peace; But here and there a glimmering cottage light Shone like a glowworm through the slumberous trees; Or from some far-off homestead through the dark A watch-dog's bark.
But all at once Sam gave a stifled cry: ”There's fire,” he muttered, ”fire upon the hills!”
No fire--but as the late moon rose on high Her light looked smoke-red as through belching mills: No fire--but moonlight turning in his path To fire of wrath.