Part 11 (1/2)

Then homewards wend my weary way, And read dry law books as I may, No solace will they yield.

And so the sad day finishes With one long sigh and yearning cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

IV.

The fields are bright, and all bedight With b.u.t.tercups and daisies; Oh, how I long to quit the throng Of human forms and faces: The vain delights, the empty shows, The toil and care bewild'rin', To feel once more the sweet repose Calm Nature gives her children.

At times the thrush shall sing, and hush The twitt'ring yellow-hammer; The blackbird fl.u.s.ter from the bush With panic-stricken clamour; The finch in thistles hide from sight, And snap the seeds and toss 'em; The blue-t.i.t hop, with pert delight, About the crab-tree blossom; The homely robin shall draw near, And sing a song most tender; The black-cap whistle soft and clear, Swayed on a twig top slender; The weasel from the hedge-row creep, So crafty and so cruel, The rabbit from the tussock leap, And splash the frosty jewel.

I care not what the season be-- Spring, summer, autumn, winter-- In morning sweet, or noon-day heat, Or when the moonbeams glint, or When rosy beams and fiery gleams, And floods of golden yellow, Proclaim the sweetest hour of all-- The evening mild and mellow.

There, though the spring shall backward keep, And loud the March winds bl.u.s.ter, The white anemone shall peep Through loveliest leaves in cl.u.s.ter.

There primrose pale or violet blue Shall gleam between the gra.s.ses; And st.i.tchwort white fling starry light, And blue bells blaze in ma.s.ses.

As summer grows and spring-time goes, O'er all the hedge shall ramble The woodbine and the wilding rose, And blossoms of the bramble.

When autumn comes, the leafy ways To red and yellow turning, With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze, And scarlet briony burning.

When winter reigns and sheets of snow, The flowers and gra.s.s lie under; The sparkling h.o.a.r frost yet shall show, A world of fairy wonder.

To me more dear such scenes appear, Than this eternal racket, No longer will I fret and f.a.g!

Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag, And help me quick to pack it.

For here one must go where every one goes, And meet shoals of people whom one never knows, Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic; And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows, And will do just the same when I'm dead I suppose; And I'm rapidly growing a sceptic.

For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack!

I've a pain in my head and an ache in my back; A terrible cold that makes me s.h.i.+ver, And a general sense of a dried-up liver; And I feel I can hardly bear it.

And it's oh for a field with four hedgerows, And the bliss which comes from an hour's repose, And a true, true friend to share it.

PROTHALAMION.

The following ”Prothalamion” was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches.

Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,-- ”To growl at something is the lot of all; Contentment is a gem on earth unknown, And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone.

Give me,” you cried, ”to see my duty clear, And room to work, unhindered in my sphere; To live my life, and work my work alone, Unloved while living, and unwept when gone.

Let none my triumphs or my failures share, Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir.”

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower, Wish to make all men good, but want the power.

Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall,-- The bond of sympathy, which binds us all.

Children and wives are hostages to fame, But aids and helps in every useful aim.

You answer, ”Look around, where'er you will, Experience teaches the same lesson still.

Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten, To abject drudgery dooms its married men: A slave at first, before the knot is tied, But soon a mere appendage to the bride; A cover, next, to s.h.i.+eld her arts from blame; At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame; In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord; Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored.”

This picture, friend, is surely overdone, You paint the tribe by drawing only one; Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude The man's whole life with misery imbued.

Say, what can Horace want to crown his life, Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife?

His lively grin proclaims the man is blest, Here perfect happiness must be confessed!

Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!-- That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.