Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE.
You can afford a little to the poor,
And then what’s better still, you have the heart
To give from your abundance.
FATHER.
God forbid
I should want charity!
CURATE.
Oh! ’tis a comfort
To think at last of riches well employ’d!
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth
Of a good deed at that most awful hour
When riches profit not.
Farmer, I’m going
To visit Margery. She is sick I hear —
Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot,
And death will be a blessing. You might send her
Some little matter, something comfortable,
That she may go down easier to the grave
And bless you when she dies.
FATHER.
What! is she going!
Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt
In the black art. I’ll tell my dame of it,
And she shall send her something.
CURATE.
So I’ll say;
And take my thanks for her’s. [‘goes’]
FATHER.
That’s a good man
That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit
The poor in sickness; but he don’t believe
In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian.
NATHANIEL.
And so old Margery’s dying!
FATHER.
But you know
She may recover; so drive t’other nail in!
THE RUINED COTTAGE.
Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye,
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,
Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower
Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock
That thro’ the creeping weeds and nettles tall
Peers taller, and uplifts its column’d stem
Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen
Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,
And many a time have trod the castle courts
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts
As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch
Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof
Part mouldered in, the rest o’ergrown with weeds,
House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;
So Nature wars with all the works of man.
And, like himself, reduces back to earth
His perishable piles.
I led thee here
Charles, not without design; for this hath been
My favourite walk even since I was a boy;
And I remember Charles, this ruin here,
The neatest comfortable dwelling place!
That when I read in those dear books that first
Woke in my heart the love of poesy,
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess
Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd’s lore;
My fancy drew from, this the little hut
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,
Or where the gentle Calidore at eve
Led Pastorella home. There was not then
A weed where all these nettles overtop
The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet
The morning air, rosemary and marjoram,
All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath’d
So lavishly around the pillared porch
Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,
I could not chuse but pass with slacken’d speed
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed
Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles! —
Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,
There’s scarce a village but can fellow it,
And yet methinks it will not weary thee,
And should not be untold.
A widow woman
Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want,
She lived on some small pittance that sufficed,
In better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at evening in that open door way
And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm’d spectacles
To see the passer by, yet ceasing not
To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden
On some dry summer evening, walking round
To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean’d
Upon the ivory handle of her stick,
To some carnation whose o’erheavy head
Needed support, while with the watering-pot
Joanna followed, and refresh’d and trimm’d
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,
As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.
Charles! it seems
As tho’ I were a boy again, and all
The mediate years with their vicissitudes
A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid
So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,
Her bright brown hair, wreath’d in contracting curls,
And then her cheek! it was a red and white
That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome,
The countrymen who on their way to church
Were leaning o’er the bridge, loitering to hear
The bell’s last summons, and in idleness
Watching the stream below, would all look up
When she pass’d by. And her old Mother, Charles!
When I have beard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness.
Her figure has recurr’d; for she did love
The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross’d
These fields in rain and thro’ the winter snows.
When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself
By the fire-side, have wondered why ‘she’ came
Who might have sate at home.
One only care
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,
Her path was plain before her, and the close
Of her long journey near. But then her child
Soon to be left alone in this bad world, —
That was a thought that many a winter night
Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love
In something better than a servant’s slate
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang
Like parting life to part with her dear girl.
One summer, Charles, when at the holydays
Return’d from school, I visited again
My old accustomed walks, and found in them.
A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Already crowding the neglected flowers.
Joanna by a villain’s wiles seduced
Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach’d
Her mother’s heart. She did not suffer long,
Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow
Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
I pass this ruin’d dwelling oftentimes
And think of other days. It wakes in me
A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles
That ever with these recollections rise,
I trust in God they will not pass away.
THE LAST OF THE FAMILY
James.
What Gregory! you are come I see to join us
Gregory.
Aye James! I am come,
But with a heavy heart – God knows it, man –
Where shall we meet the corpse?
James.
Some hour from hence,
By noon, & near about the elms I take it.
This is not as it should be Gregory!
Old men to follow young ones to the grave! –
This morning when I heard the bell strike out
I thought that I had never heard it toll
In dismay before.
Gregory.
Well – well – my friend –
Tis what we all must come to soon or late.
But when a young man dies, in the prime of life,
One born so well, who might have blest us all
Many long years, –
James.
And then the family
Extinguishd in him, & the good old name
Only to be remembered on a tombstone!
A name that has gone down from sire to son
So many generations! – many a time
Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse,
When yet a child would come to me & lead me
To the great family tree, & beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,
Of Eustace he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lionheart, & that Sir Henry
Who fought at Crecy in K. Edwards wars.
And then his little eyes would kindle so
To hear of their brave deeds! – I usd to think
The bravest of them all would not out do
My darling boy.
Gregory.
This comes of your great schools
And college breeding! plague upon his guardians
That would have made him wiser than his fathers.
James.
If his poor father Gregory! had but lived
Things would not have been so. he poor good man
Had little of book learning, but there lived not
A kinder, nobler hearted gentleman.
One better to his tenants. when he died
There was not a dry eye for miles around.
Gregory I thought that I could never know
A sadder day than that, – but what was that
Compared to this days sorrow?
Gregory.
I remember
Eight months ago when the young Squire began
To alter the old mansion, they destroyd
The martins nests that had stood undisturbd
Under that roof, – aye – long before my memory.
I shook my head at seeing it & thought
No good could follow.
James.
Poor young man! I loved him
Like my own child, I loved the family;
Come Candlemas & I have been their servant
For five & forty years. I lived with them
When his good father brought my Lady home,
And when the young Squire was born, it did me good
To hear the bells so merrily announce
An heir. this is indeed a heavy blow –
I feel it Gregory, heavier than the weight
Of three-score years. he was a noble lad –
I loved him dearly!
Gregory.
Every body loved him –
Such a fine, generous, open-hearted youth!
When he came home from school at holydays
How I rejoiced to see him! he was sure
To come to me & to ask of me what birds there were
About my fields; & when I found a covey
Theres not a testy Squire preserves his game
More charily, than I have kept them safe
For Master Edward. & he lookd so well
Upon a fine sharp morning after them,
His brown hair frosted, & his cheek so flushd,
With such a wholesome ruddiness! ah James
But he was sadly changed when he came down
To keep his birth day!
James.
Changd! – why Gregory
Twas like a palsy to me, when he steppd
Out of the carriage. he was grown so thin,
His cheek so delicate sallow, & his eyes
Had such a dim & rakish hollowness!
And when he came to shake me by the hand
And spoke as kindly to me as he used,
I hardly knew the voice!
Gregory.
It struck a damp
On all our merriment. twas a noble ox
That smoak’d before us, & the old October
Went merrily in overflowing cans;
But twas a skin-deep merriment, my heart
Seemd as it took no share. – & when we drank
His health, the thought came over me what cause
We had for wishing that, & spoilt the draught.
Poor Gentleman – to think ten months ago
He came of age, & now –
James.
I feard it then;
He lookd to me as one that was not long
For this worlds business.
Gregory.
When the Doctors sent him
Abroad to try the air it made me certain
That all was over. there’s but little hope,
Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man
When his own mother country will not do.
The last time he came down these bells rung so
I thought they would have rockd the old steeple down
And now that dismal toll! I would have staid
Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty.
I’m an old tenant of the family,
Born on the estate, & now that I’ve outlived it,
Why tis but right to see it to the grave.
Have you heard ought of the new Squire?
James.
But little
And that not well; but be he what he may
Matters not much to me. the love I bore
To the good family will not easily fix
Upon a stranger; tis too old a plant
To bear transplanting & its roots had struck
Too deeply. look – what’s on the opposite hill?
Is’t not the funeral?
Gregory.
Tis I think some horsemen
James.
And yonder is the herse – between the trees,
Tis hid behind them now.
Gregory –
Aye – there I see it
And there’s the coaches following, we shall meet
About the bridge. would that this day were over
I wonder whose turn’s next?
James
God above knows.
When youth is summond what must age expect!
God make us ready Gregory when it comes.
THE WEDDING
TRAVELLER.
I pray you, wherefore are the village bells
Ringing so merrily?
WOMAN.
A wedding, Sir,..
Two of the village folk. And they are right
To make a merry time on’t while they may!
Come twelve-months hence, I warrant them they’d go
To church again more willingly than now,
If all might be undone.
TRAVELLER.
An ill-match’d pair,
So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age?
WOMAN.
No,.. both are young enough.
TRAVELLER.
Perhaps the man then,
A lazy idler,.. one who better likes
The alehouse than his work?
WOMAN.
Why, Sir, for that
He always was a well-condition’d lad,
One who’d work hard and well; and as for drink,
Save now and then mayhap at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish
.
TRAVELLER.
Then is the girl
A shrew, or else untidy;.. one to welcome
Her husband with a rude unruly tongue!
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so?
WOMAN.
She’s notable enough; and as for temper
The best good-humour’d girl! You see yon house,
There by the aspen-tree, whose grey leaves shine
In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm.
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I’ve heard her singing as she milk’d her cows
So cheerfully,.. I did not like to hear her,
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry,
And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her!
TRAVELLER.
Why Mistress, if they both are well inclined,
Why should not both be happy?
WOMAN.
They’ve no money.
TRAVELLER.
But both can work; and sure as cheerfully
She’d labour for herself as at the farm.
And he wo’n’t work the worse because he knows
That she will make his fire-side ready for him,
And watch for his return.
WOMAN.
All very well,
A little while.
TRAVELLER.
And what if they are poor?
Riches can’t always purchase happiness;
And much we know will be expected there
Where much was given.
WOMAN.
All this I have heard at church!
And when I walk in the church-yard, or have been
By a death-bed, ’tis mighty comforting.
But when I hear my children cry for hunger,
And see them shiver in their rags,.. God help me!
I pity those for whom these bells ring up
So merrily upon their wedding-day,
Because I think of mine.
TRAVELLER.
You have known trouble;
These haply may be happier.
WOMAN.
Why for that
I’ve had my share; some sickness and some sorrow
Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey Page 44