Sadness and Melancholy

Remembrances


Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and
ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone

When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
thing
With heart just like a feather- now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring

When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play

When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden
brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'- O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
chains
And in a silent murmuring complains


Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill
The little homeless miners- O it turns my bosom chill
When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly
snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing
else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow

I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and
done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won

By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is
running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill

O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away


But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay.

To Lina

SHOULD these songs, love, as they fleet,

Chance again to reach thy hand,
At the piano take thy seat,
Where thy friend was wont to stand!
Sweep with finger bold the string,
Then the book one moment see:


But read not! do nought but sing!
And each page thine own will be!
Ah, what grief the song imparts
With its letters, black on white,


That, when breath'd by thee, our hearts
Now can break and now delight!

To Charlotte

'MIDST the noise of merriment and glee,

'Midst full many a sorrow, many a care,
Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,
How, at evening's hour so fair,

Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,
When thou, in some happy place
Where more fair is Nature s face,
Many a lightly-hidden trace


Of a spirit loved didst teach us.
Well 'tis that thy worth I rightly knew,--
That I, in the hour when first we met,
While the first impression fill'd me yet,


Call'd thee then a girl both good and true.
Rear'd in silence, calmly, knowing nought,
On the world we suddenly are thrown;


Hundred thousand billows round us sport;


All things charm us--many please alone,
Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing,
To and fro our restless natures sway;


First we feel, and then we find each feeling
By the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us find
Many a hope and many a smart.


Charlotte, who can know our mind?


Charlotte, who can know our heart?
Ah! 'twould fain be understood, 'twould fain o'erflow
In some creature's fellow-feelings blest,


And, with trust, in twofold measure know
All the grief and joy in Nature's breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast,
But in vain, for all seems closed for ever.

Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass'd


Free from storm, but resting never:

To thy sorrow thou'rt to-day repell'd
By what yesterday obey'd thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy held

Which so oft betray'd thee?
Which, 'mid all thy pleasures and thy pains,
Lived in selfish, unconcern'd repose?


See, the soul its secret cells regains,


And the heart--makes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee;
"She's worthy of all love!" I cried,


And pray'd that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee,
Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied.

The Shepherd's Lament

ON yonder lofty mountain

A thousand times I stand,
And on my staff reclining,
Look down on the smiling land.
My grazing flocks then I follow,
My dog protecting them well;


I find myself in the valley,
But how, I scarcely can tell.
The whole of the meadow is cover'd
With flowers of beauty rare;


I pluck them, but pluck them unknowing
To whom the offering to bear.
In rain and storm and tempest,
I tarry beneath the tree,


But closed remaineth yon portal;
'Tis all but a vision to me.
High over yonder dwelling,
There rises a rainbow gay;


But she from home hath departed
And wander'd far, far away.
Yes, far away bath she wander'd,
Perchance e'en over the sea;


Move onward, ye sheep, then, move onward!
Full sad the shepherd must be.

The Farewell

LET mine eye the farewell say,

That my lips can utter ne'er;
Fain I'd be a man to-day,
Yet 'tis hard, oh, hard to bear!
Mournful in an hour like this
Is love's sweetest pledge, I ween;


Cold upon thy mouth the kiss,
Faint thy fingers' pressure e'en.
Oh what rapture to my heart
Used each stolen kiss to bring!


As the violets joy impart,
Gather'd in the early spring.
Now no garlands I entwine,
Now no roses pluck. for thee,


Though 'tis springtime, Fanny mine,
Dreary autumn 'tis to me!

The Exchange

THE stones in the streamlet I make my bright pillow,
And open my arms to the swift-rolling billow,


That lovingly hastens to fall on my breast.
Then fickleness soon bids it onwards be flowing;
A second draws nigh, its caresses bestowing,--


And so by a twofold enjoyment I'm blest.


And yet thou art trailing in sorrow and sadness
The moments that life, as it flies, gave for gladness,


Because by thy love thou'rt remember'd no more!
Oh, call back to mind former days and their blisses!
The lips of the second will give as sweet kisses


As any the lips of the first gave before!

Blindman's Buff

OH, my Theresa dear!
Thine eyes, I greatly fear,


Can through the bandage see!
Although thine eyes are bound,
By thee I'm quickly found,


And wherefore shouldst thou catch but me?


Ere long thou held'st me fast,
With arms around me cast,


Upon thy breast I fell;
Scarce was thy bandage gone,
When all my joy was flown,


Thou coldly didst the blind repel.


He groped on ev'ry side,
His limbs he sorely tried,


While scoffs arose all round;
If thou no love wilt give,
In sadness I shall live,


As if mine eyes remain'd still bound.

After-Sensations


WHEN the vine again is blowing,
Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,

Wherefore should I feel oppress'd?
Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,
If I do, or leave my task;

I but feel a speechless yearning,

That pervades my inmost breast.
But at length I see the reason,
When the question I would ask:

'Twas in such a beauteous season,

Doris glowed to make me blest!

The Old Year And The New

I.
As one in sorrow looks upon
The dead face of a loyal friend,
By the dim light of New Year's dawn
I saw the Old Year end.


Upon the pallid features lay
The dear old smile--so warm and bright
Ere thus its cheer had died away
In ashes of delight.


The hands that I had learned to love
With strength of passion half divine,
Were folded now, all heedless of
The emptiness of mine.


The eyes that once had shed their bright
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull,
And ever lidded from the light
That made them beautiful.


II.
The chimes of bells were in the air,
And sounds of mirth in hall and street,
With pealing laughter everywhere
And throb of dancing feet:


The mirth and the convivial din
Of revelers in wanton glee,
With tunes of harp and violin
In tangled harmony.


But with a sense of nameless dread,
I turned me, from the merry face
Of this newcomer, to my dead;
And, kneeling there a space,


I sobbed aloud, all tearfully:--
By this dear face so fixed and cold,
O Lord, let not this New Year be
As happy as the old!

The Boys

Where are they?--the friends of my childhood enchanted--
The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own,
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted,
As when we raced over
Pink pastures of clover,
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone?


Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces
Forever adrift down the years that are flown?
Am I never to see them romp back to their places,
Where over the meadow,
In sunshine and shadow,
The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone?


Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover;
The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone,
And the dove's--I have wept at it over and over;--
I want the glad luster
Of youth, and the cluster
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone!

Last Night-- And This

Last night-- how deep the darkness was!
And well I knew its depths, because
I waded it from shore to shore,
Thinking to reach the light no more.


She would not even touch my hand---.
The winds rose and the cedars fanned
The moon out, and the stars fled back
In heaven and hid-- and all was black!


But ah! To-night a summons came,
Signed with a tear-drop for a name,
For as I wondering kissed it, lo
A line beneath it told me so.


And now-- the moon hangs over me
A disk of dazzling brilliancy,
And every star-tip stabs my sights
With splintered glitterings of light!

Johnson's Boy

The world is turned ag'in' me,
And people says, 'They guess
That nothin' else is in me
But pure maliciousness!'
I git the blame for doin'
What other chaps destroy,
And I'm a-goin' to ruin
Because I'm 'Johnson's boy.'


THAT ain't my name--I'd ruther
They'd call me IKE or PAT--
But they've forgot the other--
And so have _I_, for that!
I reckon it's as handy,
When Nibsy breaks his toy,
Or some one steals his candy,
To say 'twas 'JOHNSON'S BOY!'


You can't git any water
At the pump, and find the spout
So durn chuck-full o' mortar
That you have to bore it out;
You tackle any scholar
In Wisdom's wise employ,
And I'll bet you half a dollar
He'll say it's 'Johnson's boy!'


Folks don't know how I suffer
In my uncomplainin' way--
They think I'm gittin' tougher
And tougher every day.
Last Sunday night, when Flinder
Was a-shoutin' out for joy,
And some one shook the winder,
He prayed for 'Johnson's boy.'


I'm tired of bein' follered
By farmers every day,
And then o' bein' collared
For coaxin' hounds away;
Hounds always plays me double-It's
a trick they all enjoy--
To git me into trouble,
Because I'm 'Johnson's boy.'


But if I git to Heaven,
I hope the Lord'll see
SOME boy has been perfect,
And lay it on to me;
I'll swell the song sonorous,
And clap my wings for joy,
And sail off on the chorus-



'Hurrah for 'Johnson's boy!''

At Crown Hill

Leave him here in the fresh
greening grasses and trees
And the symbols of love, and the solace of these-
The saintly white lilies and blossoms he keeps
In endless caress as
he breathlessly sleeps.
The tears of our eyes wrong the scene of his rest,
For the sky's at its clearest-the sun's at its best-
The earth at its greenest- its wild bud and bloom
At its sweetest-and sweetest its honey'd perfume.
Home! Home!-Leave him here in his lordly estate,
And with never a tear as we turn from the gate!
Turn back to the home that will know him no more,-
The vines at the window-the sun through the door,-
Nor sound of his voice, nor the light of his face!...
But the birds will sing on, and the rose, in his place,
Will tenderly smile til we daringly feign
He is home with us still, though the tremulous rain
Of our tears reappear, and again all is bloom,
And all prayerless we sob in the long-darkened room.
Heaven portions it thus-the old mystery dim,-
It is midnight to us-it is morning to him

A Feel In The Chris'mas-Air

They's a kind o' _feel_ in the air, to me.
When the Chris'mas-times sets in.
That's about as much of a mystery
As ever I've run ag'in!--
Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight
And gineral health, I swear
They's a _goneness_ somers I can't quite state--
A kind o' _feel_ in the air.

They's a feel in the Chris'mas-air goes right
To the spot where a man _lives_ at!--
It gives a feller a' appetite--
They ain't no doubt about _that_!--
And yit they's _somepin_'--I don't know what--
That follers me, here and there,
And ha'nts and worries and spares me not--
A kind o' feel in the air!

They's a _feel_, as I say, in the air that's jest
As blame-don sad as sweet!--
In the same ra-sho as I feel the best
And am spryest on my feet,
They's allus a kind o' sort of a' _ache_
That I can't lo-cate no-where;--
But it comes with _Chris'mas_, and no mistake!--
A kind o' feel in the air.

Is it the racket the childern raise?-W'y,
_no_!--God bless 'em!--_no_!--
Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze--
Like my _own_ wuz, long ago?--
Is it the bleat o' the whistle and beat
O' the little toy-drum and blare
O' the horn?--_No! no!_--it is jest the sweet--
The sad-sweet feel in the air.

A Christmas Memory

Pa he bringed me here to stay
'Til my Ma she's well.--An' nen
He's go' hitch up, Chris'mus-day,
An' come take me back again
Wher' my Ma's at! Won't I be
Tickled when he comes fer me!


My Ma an' my A'nty they
'Uz each-uvver's sisters. Pa-A'nty
telled me, th' other day,--
He comed here an' married Ma....
A'nty said nen, 'Go run play,
I must work now!' ... An' I saw,
When she turn' her face away,
She 'uz cryin'.--An' nen I
'Tend-like I 'run play'--an' cry.


This-here house o' A'nty's wher'
They 'uz borned--my Ma an' her!--
An' her Ma 'uz my Ma's Ma,
An' her Pa 'uz my Ma's Pa-


Ain't that funny?--An' they're dead:
An' this-here's 'th' ole Homestead.'--
An' my A'nty said, an' cried,
It's mine, too, ef my Ma died-Don't
know what she mean--'cause my
Ma she's nuvver go' to die!


When Pa bringed me here 't 'uz night-'
Way dark night! An' A'nty spread
Me a piece--an' light the light
An' say I must go to bed.--
I cry not to---but Pa said,
'Be good boy now, like you telled
Mommy 'at you're go' to be!'
An', when he 'uz kissin' me
My good night, his cheeks' all wet
An' taste salty.--An' he held
Wite close to me an' rocked some
An' langhed-like--'til A'nty come
Git me while he's rockin' yet.


A'nty he'p me, 'til I be
Purt'-nigh strip-pud--nen hug me
In bofe arms an' lif' me 'way
Up in her high bed--an' pray
Wiv me,--'bout my Ma--an' Pa--
An' ole Santy Claus--an' Sleigh--
An' Reindeers an' little Drum--
Yes, an' Picture-books, 'Tom Thumb,'
An' 'Three Bears,' an' ole 'Fee-Faw'-



Yes, an' 'Tweedle-Dee' an' 'Dum,'
An' 'White Knight' an' 'Squidjicum,'
An' most things you ever saw!--
An' when A'nty kissed me, she
'Uz all cryin' over me!


Don't want Santy Claus--ner things
Any kind he ever brings!-Don't
want A'nty!--Don't want Pa!--
I ist only want my Ma!

Be Not Sad

Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -
Can they dishonour you?


They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.

All Day I Hear the Noise of Waters

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.


The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

The Loser

He lost his money first of all
And losing that is half the story-
And later on he tried a fall
With fate, in things less transitory
He lost his heart-and found it dead(
His one and only true discovery),
And after that he lost his head,
And lost his chances of recovery.
He lost his honour bit by bit
Until the thing was out of question.
He worried so at losing it,
He lost his sleep and his digestion.
He lost his temper- and for good-
The remnants of his reputation,
His taste in wine, his choice of food,
And then, in rapid culmination,
His certitudes, his sense of truth,
His memory, his self control,
The love that graced his early youth,
And lastly his immortal soul.

In The Harbour: Autumn Within

It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.


Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.


There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill.

By The Fireside : The Open Window

The old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.


I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.


The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.


They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.


The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet, familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!


And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his warm, soft hand!

Autumnal Nightfall

Round Autumn's mouldering urn
Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,
When nightfall shades the quiet vale
And stars in beauty burn.


'Tis the year's eventide.
The wind, like one that sighs in pain
O?er joys that ne'er will bloom again
Mourns on the far hillside.


And yet my pensive eye
Rests on the faint blue mountain long;
And for the fairy-land of song,
That lies beyond, I sigh.


The moon unveils her brow;
In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,
And in her sad and mellowing light
The valley sleeps below.


Upon the hazel gray
The lyre of Autumn hangs unstrung
And o?er its tremulous chords are flung
The fringes of decay.


I stand deep musing here,
Beneath the dark and motionless beech,
Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach
My melancholy ear.


The air breathes chill and free:
A spirit in soft music calls
From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls,
And round her withered tree.


The hoar and mantled oak,
With moss and twisted ivy brown,
Bends in its lifeless beauty down
Where weeds the fountain choke.


That fountain's hollow voice
Echoes the sound of precious things;
Of early feeling's tuneful springs
Choked with our blighted joys.


Leaves, that the night-wind bears
To earth's cold bosom with a sign,
Are types of our mortality,
And of our fading years.


The tree that shades the plain,
Wasting and hoar as time decays,



Spring shall renew with cheerful days,--
But not my joys again.

Afternoon in February

The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.


Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.


The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o'er the plain;


While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.


The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;


Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

The Black Birds

I

Once, only once, I saw it clear, --
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen, --
And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove


From the rough mountain where I stood,
Homesick for happiness,
Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood
To cross, and then the long distress
Of solitude would be forever past, --
I should be home at last.
But not too soon! oh, let me linger here
And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow,
On all this loveliness, so near,
And mine to-morrow!


Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue,
A dark bird flew,
Silent, with sable wings.
Close in his wake another came, --
Fragments of midnight floating through
The sunset flame, --
Another and another, weaving rings
Of blackness on the primrose sky, --
Another, and another, look, a score,
A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily
From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, --
They boiled into the lucid air
Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair!
And more, and more, and ever more,
The numberless, ill-omened brood,
Flapping their ragged plumes,
Possessed the landscape and the evening light
With menaces and glooms.
Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place
Where once I saw the little house so white
Amid the flowers, covering every trace
Of beauty from my troubled sight, --
And suddenly it was night!



II


At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and love
That those night-loving wings had poised above, --
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the withering heads
Of flowers, presaging decay,
Hung over barren beds:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day, --
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.

If All the Skies

If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once more upon them
The cooling splash of rain.


If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.


If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.