The Poem Reader

Oh, to be in EnglandNow that April's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England - now!

And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops - at the bentspray's edge -That's the wise thrush; he sings each songtwice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

The tree that never had to fightFor sun and sky and air and light,But stood out in the open plainAnd always got its share of rain,Never became a forest kingBut lived and died a scrubby thing.

The man who never had to toilTo gain and farm his patch of soil,Who never had to win his shareOf sun and sky and light and air,Never became a manly manBut lived and died as he began.

Good timber does not grow with ease:The stronger wind, the stronger trees;The further sky, the greater length;The more the storm, the more the strength.By sun and cold, by rain and snow,In trees and men good timbers grow.

Where thickest lies the forest growth,We find the patriarchs of both.And they hold counsel with the starsWhose broken branches show the scarsOf many winds and much of strife.This is the common law of life.

Gaily bedight,   A gallant knight,In sunshine and in shadow,   Had journeyed long,   Singing a song,In search of Eldorado.

   But he grew old,   This knight so bold,And o'er his heart a shadow   Fell as he found   No spot of groundThat looked like Eldorado.

   And, as his strength   Failed him at length,He met a pilgrim shadow;   "Shadow," said he,   "Where can it be,This land of Eldorado?"

   "Over the mountains   Of the moon,Down the valley of the shadow,   Ride, boldly ride,"   The shade replied,--"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Subtitled"Hal o' the Draft" -- Puck of Pook's Hill.

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,Baccy for the Clerk;Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,And watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!Running round the woodlump if you chance to findLittle barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.Put the brishwood back again — and they'll be gone next day!If you see the stable-door setting open wide;If you see a tired horse lying down inside;If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;If the lining's wet and warm — don't you ask no more!If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!Knocks and footsteps round the house — whistles after dark —You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie —They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood —A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!Five and twenty ponies,Trotting through the dark —Brandy for the Parson,'Baccy for the Clerk;Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —Watch the wall, my darling,While the Gentlemen go by!

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,

With avarice painful vigils keep:

Still unenjoy'd the present store,

Still endless sighs are breathed for more.

O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,

Which not all India's treasure buys!

To purchase with heaven has gold the power?

Can gold remove the mortal hour?

In life can love be bought with gold?

Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?

No! - all that's worth a wish - a thought,

Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought,

Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,

Let noble views engage thy mind.

With science tread the wondrous way,

Or learn the Muses' moral lay;

In social hours indulge thy soul,

Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;

To virtuous love resign thy breast,

And be, by blessing beauty, - bless'd.

Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,

Ere youth and all its joys are fled;

Come taste with me the balm of life,

Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.

I boast whate'er for man was meant,

In health, and Stella, and content;

And scorn! (oh! let that scorn be thine!)

Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.

‘Tis not that I am weary grownOf being yours, and yours alone,But with what face can I inclineTo damn you to be only mine?You, whom some kinder power did fashionBy merit and by inclinationThe joy at least of a whole nation.

Let meaner spirits of your sexWith humble aims their thoughts perplex,And boast if by their arts they canContrive to make one happy man;While moved by an impartial senseFavours, like Nature, you dispenseWith universal influence.

See the kind seed-receiving earthTo every grain affords a birth:On her no showers unwelcome fall,Her willing womb retains 'em all,And shall my Caelia be confined?No, live up to thy mighty mind,And be the mistress of Mankind!

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did treadThe night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayedTo straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers runBehind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clearThe night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

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The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea   In a beautiful pea-green boat:They took some honey, and plenty of money   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.The Owl looked up to the stars above,   And sang to a small guitar,"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,   What a beautiful Pussy you are,            You are,            You are!   What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,   How charmingly sweet you sing!Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried,   But what shall we do for a ring?"They sailed away, for a year and a day,To the land where the bong-tree grows;And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,   With a ring at the end of his nose,            His nose,            His nose,   With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling   Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."So they took it away, and were married next day   By the turkey who lives on the hill.They dined on mince and slices of quince,   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,   They danced by the light of the moon,            The moon,            The moon,   They danced by the light of the moon.

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From childhood’s hour I have not beenAs others were—I have not seenAs others saw—I could not bringMy passions from a common spring—From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow—I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone—And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—Then—in my childhood—in the dawnOf a most stormy life—was drawnFrom ev’ry depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still—From the torrent, or the fountain—From the red cliff of the mountain—From the sun that ’round me roll’dIn its autumn tint of gold—From the lightning in the skyAs it pass’d me flying by—From the thunder, and the storm—And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view—

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To Beatriz Bibiloni Webster de Bullrich

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