Classic Poem

From where dark clouds of curling smoke arise,
And the tall column mounts into the skies;
Where the grim arches of the forge appear,
Whose fluted pillars prop the thickening air;
Where domes of peers and humble roofs are found
Alike to spread their mingled vapours round;
From denser air and busy towns I run,
To catch a glimpse of the unclouded sun;
Foe to the toils which wealth and pomp create,
And all the hard-wrought tinsel of the great.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Adown the stream where woods begin to throw
Their verdant arms around the rocks below,
A rustic bridge across the tide is thrown,
Where briars and woodbine hide the hoary stone;
A simple arch salutes th' admiring eye,
And the mill's clack the tumbling waves supply.
But lest society some loss should share,
And nearest neighbours lack their neighbour's fare,
The tottering step-stones cross the stream are laid,
O'er which trips lightly many a busy maid,
And many a matron; when one failing cow
Bids no big cheese within the cheese-vat grow,
Their wealthier neighbour then, her bowls to swell,
Will gladly take what they as gladly sell.
The morning toils are now completely o'er,
The bowls well scalded, and well swept the floor.
The daughter at the needle plies the seam,
While the good mother hastens to the stream:
There the long webs, that wintry moons began,
Lie stretched and beaming in the summer's sun;
And lest he scorch them in his fervid hours,
She scoops along the nice conducted showers;
Till like the snow, that tips the mountain's height,
The brown's dull shade gives place to purest white;
While her sweet child knee-deep is wading seen,
Picking bright stones, or tumbling on the green.
But now the sun's bright whirling wheels appear
On the broad front of noon, in full career.
A sign more welcome hangs not in the air,
For now the sister's call the brothers hear;
Dinner's the word, and every cave around
Devours the voice, and feasts upon the sound.
‘'Tis dinner, father!’ all the brothers cry,
Throw down the spade, and heave the pickaxe by;
‘'Tis dinner, father!’ Home they panting go,
While the tired parent still pants on more slow.
Now the fried rasher meets them on the way,
And savoury pancakes welcome steams convey.
Their pace they mend, till at the pump they stand,
Deluge the face and purify the hand,
And then to dinner. There the women wait,
And the tired father fills his chair of state;
Smoking potatoes meet their thankful eyes,
And Hunger wafts the grateful sacrifice;
To her libations of sweet milk are poured,
And Peace and Plenty watch around the board.
Now, till the sun has somewhat sunk in height,
Yet long before he dips his wheels in night,
The nut-brown labourers their senses steep
In the soft dews of renovating sleep;
The worthy sire to the soft bed repairs,
The sons beneath the shade forget their cares.
The clock strikes two, it beats upon the ear,
And soon the parent's anxious voice they hear:
‘Come, come, my lads, you must not sleep all day!’
They rub their eyes, start up, then stalk away.
. . . . . . . . . .

From noon till morn rests female toil; save come
The evening hours when lowing cows draw home.
Now the good neighbour walks her friend to see,
And knits an hour, and drink a dish of tea.
She comes unlooked for—wheat-bread is to seek,
The baker has none, got no yeast last week;
And little Peggy thinks herself ill sped,
Though she has got a great piece gingerbread.
Home she returns, but disappointment's trace
Darkens her eye, and lengthens all her face;
She whispers lowly in her sister's ear,
Scarce can restrain the glistening, swelling tear.
The mother marks, and to the milk-house goes,
Blithe Peggy smiles, she well the errand knows;
There from the bowl, where cream so coolly swims,
The future butter generously skims,
And, flour commixing, forms a rural bread
That for the wheaten loaf oft stands in stead;
Cup after cup sends steaming circles round,
And oft the weak tea's in the full pot drowned;
It matters not, for while their news they tell
The mind's content, and all things move on well.
The sun has now his saffron robe put on,
Stepped from his chariot that with rubies shone;
The glittering monarch gains the western gate,
And for a moment shines in regal state;
His streaming mantle floats along the sky,
While he glides softly from the gazing eye;
From saffron tinge to yellow soon it flew,
Sea-green the next, and then to darkest blue.
Now different cares employ the village train,
The rich in cattle press the milky vein;
When, lo! a voice sends direful notes around,
And sharp vexation mingles in the sound;
'Tis little Peggy, she the pail would fill,
And on old Hawky try her early skill.
She stroked and clapped her, but she'd not allow;
The well-known hand best pleased the knowing cow;
Though cabbage leaves before her band was cast,
Hawky refused the coaxing rich repast;
And when the little hand unapt she found,
She kicked, and whelmed her on the slippery ground.
Along yon hedge now mouldering and decayed,
In gathered heaps you see the fragments laid;
Piled up with care to swell the nightly blaze,
And in the widow's hut a fire to raise.
See where she comes with her blue apron full,
Crowned with some scattered locks of dingy wool.
In years she seems, and on her well-patched clothes
Want much has added to her other woes.
There is a poor-house; but some little pride
Forbids her there her humbled head to hide;
O'er former scenes of better days she runs,
And everything like degradation shuns!
Now hooded Eve slow-gliding comes in view,
Busied in threading pearls of diamond dew;
Waking the flowers that early close the eye,
And giving drops to those that else would die.
And what is man but such a tender flower,
That buds, blooms, fades and dies within the hour?
Where round yon cottage the rosemary grows,
And turncap lilies flaunt beside the rose,
Two aged females turn the weary wheel,
And, as they turn, their slumbering thoughts reveal:
‘How long is't, think ye, since th' old style was lost?
Poor England may remember't to her cost!
E'er since that time the weather has grown cold’
(For Jane forgets that she is now grown old).
‘I know when I lived servant at Woodmile,
So scorching hot the weather was in April,
The cows would startle, and by ten o'clock
My master used his horses to unyoke;
Tis not so now; the sun has lost its power;
The very apples now-a-days are sour!
Could not the Parson tell the reason why
There are such changes both in earth and sky?’
‘'Tis not these only,’ Margaret replied,
‘For many a change besides have I espied.
Look at the girls!—they all dress now-a-days
Like them fine folk who act them nonsense plays!
No more the decent mob surrounds the face,
Bordered with edging, or bit good bone-lace;
Gauze flappets soon—that will not last a day—
We'll see them flaunting whilst they're making hay!
All things are changed, the world's turned upside down,
And every servant wears a cotton gown,
Bit flimsy things, that have no strength to wear,
And will like any blotting-paper tear!
I made my Nelly a half-worsted gown,
She slighting told me 't would not do in town!
This pride! this pride! it sure must have a fall,
And bring some heavy judgement on us all!
They're grown so bold too, and their lads allow,
When courting them, to skulk behind a cow,
Till all's in bed. My John, when courting me,
Used after supper to come manfully;
For oft he used to say he knew no place
Where honesty need fear to show its face.
No more it need! My master used to cry,
He feared but two things—to turn thief, and lie.’