Part 14

THE YOUNG THAT DIED IN BEAUTY.

If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothen better wer the ceaese, How comely still, in sheaepe an' feaece, Would many reach thik happy pleaece,— The hopeful souls that in their prime Ha' seem'd a-took avore their time— The young that died in beauty.

But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth A-tweilen drough a lifetime's langth, An' over cheaeks a-growen wold The slowly-weaesten years ha' rolled, The deep'nen wrinkle's hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo'ks in their beauty.

But pinen souls, wi' heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi' a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha' laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.

An' yeet the church, where prayer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. An' village greens, a-beaet half beaere By dancers that do meet, an' weaer Such merry looks at feaest an' feaeir, Do gather under leatest skies, Their bloomen cheaeks an' sparklen eyes, Though young ha' died in beauty.

But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their eaerly sleep; Where comely looks shall never weaer Uncomely, under tweil an' ceaere. The feaeir at death be always feaeir, Still feaeir to livers' thought an' love, An' feaeirer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.

FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.

Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles Vrom thy green meaeds that, in my walk, I met a maid wi' winnen smiles, That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; An' who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

But thy wold house an' elmy nook, An' wall-screen'd geaerden's mossy zides, Thy grassy meaeds an' zedgy brook, An' high-bank'd leaenes, wi' sheaedy rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov eaerly days, a-quench'd by night, Avore they met the younger zight Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

An' now my heart do leaep to think O' times that I've a-spent in play, Bezide thy river's rushy brink, Upon a deaeizybed o' May; I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, An' I do love the paths they wore, An' I do love thee all the mwore, Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

When bright above the e'th below The moon do spread abroad his light, An' air o' zummer nights do blow Athirt the vields in playsome flight, 'Tis then delightsome under all The sheaedes o' boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.

THE SCUD.

Aye, aye, the leaene wi' flow'ry zides A-kept so lew, by hazzle-wrides, Wi' beds o' graegles out in bloom, Below the timber's windless gloon An' geaete that I've a-swung, An' rod as he's a-hung, When I wer young, in Woakley Coomb.

'Twer there at feaest we all did pass The evenen on the leaenezide grass, Out where the geaete do let us drough, Below the woak-trees in the lew, In merry geaemes an' fun That meaede us skip an' run, Wi' burnen zun, an' sky o' blue.

But still there come a scud that drove The titt'ren maidens vrom the grove; An' there a-left wer flow'ry mound, 'Ithout a vaice, 'ithout a sound, Unless the air did blow, Drough ruslen leaves, an' drow, The rain drops low, upon the ground.

I linger'd there an' miss'd the naise; I linger'd there an' miss'd our jays; I miss'd woone soul beyond the rest; The maid that I do like the best. Vor where her vaice is gay An' where her smiles do play, There's always jay vor ev'ry breast.

Vor zome vo'k out abroad ha' me'th, But nwone at hwome bezide the he'th; An' zome ha' smiles vor strangers' view; An' frowns vor kith an' kin to rue; But her sweet vaice do vall, Wi' kindly words to all, Both big an' small, the whole day drough.

An' when the evenen sky wer peaele, We heaerd the warblen nightengeaele, A-drawen out his lwonesome zong, In winden music down the drong; An' Jenny vrom her he'th, Come out, though not in me'th, But held her breath, to hear his zong.

Then, while the bird wi' oben bill Did warble on, her vaice wer still; An' as she stood avore me, bound In stillness to the flow'ry mound, "The bird's a jay to zome," I thought, "but when he's dum, Her vaice will come, wi' sweeter sound."

MINDEN HOUSE.

'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl A vield o' hay a day in June, An' when the zun begun to vall Toward the west in afternoon, Woone only wer a-left behind To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind The house, an' answer vo'k avore The geaete or door,—young Fanny Deaene.

The air 'ithin the geaerden wall Wer deadly still, unless the bee Did hummy by, or in the hall The clock did ring a-hetten dree, An' there, wi' busy hands, inside The iron ceaesement, oben'd wide, Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deaene.

As there she zot she heaerd two blows A-knock'd upon the rumblen door, An' laid azide her work, an' rose, An' walk'd out feaeir, athirt the vloor; An' there, a-holden in his hand His bridled meaere, a youth did stand, An' mildly twold his neaeme and pleaece Avore the feaece o' Fanny Deaene.

He twold her that he had on hand Zome business on his father's zide, But what she didden understand; An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride Out where her father mid be vound, Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground; An' there he went, but left his mind Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deaene.

An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gay In air a-blowen, whiff by whiff, While sheenen water-weaeves did play An' boughs did sway above the cliff; Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim The jay it had in store vor him; An' when he went thik road ageaen His errand then wer Fanny Deaene.

How strangely things be brought about By Providence, noo tongue can tell, She minded house, when vo'k wer out, An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell; The bees mid hum, the clock mid call The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall, But in behind the woaken door, There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deaene.

THE LOVELY MAID OV ELWELL MEAeD.

A maid wi' many gifts o' greaece, A maid wi' ever-smilen feaece, A child o' yours my chilhood's pleaece, O leaenen lawns ov Allen; 'S a-walken where your stream do flow, A-blushen where your flowers do blow, A-smilen where your zun do glow, O leaenen lawns ov Allen. An' good, however good's a-waigh'd, 'S the lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed.

An' oh! if I could teaeme an' guide The winds above the e'th, an' ride As light as shooten stars do glide, O leaenen lawns ov Allen, To you I'd teaeke my daily flight, Drough dark'nen air in evenen's light, An' bid her every night "Good night," O leaenen lawns ov Allen. Vor good, however good's a-waigh'd, 'S the lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed.

An' when your hedges' slooes be blue, By blackberries o' dark'nen hue, An' spiders' webs behung wi' dew, O leaenen lawns ov Allen Avore the winter air's a-chill'd, Avore your winter brook's a-vill'd Avore your zummer flow'rs be kill'd, O leaenen lawns ov Allen; I there would meet, in white array'd, The lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed.

For when the zun, as birds do rise, Do cast their sheaedes vrom autum' skies, A-sparklen in her dewy eyes, O leaenen lawns ov Allen Then all your mossy paths below The trees, wi' leaves a-vallen slow, Like zinken fleaekes o' yollow snow, O leaenen lawns ov Allen. Would be mwore teaeken where they stray'd The lovely maid ov Elwell Meaed.

OUR FATHERS' WORKS.

Ah! I do think, as I do tread Theaese path, wi' elems overhead, A-climen slowly up vrom Bridge, By easy steps, to Broadwoak Ridge, That all theaese roads that we do bruise Wi' hosses' shoes, or heavy lwoads; An' hedges' bands, where trees in row Do rise an' grow aroun' the lands, Be works that we've a-vound a-wrought By our vorefathers' ceaere an' thought.

They clear'd the groun' vor grass to teaeke The pleaece that bore the bremble breaeke, An' drain'd the fen, where water spread, A-lyen dead, a beaene to men; An' built the mill, where still the wheel Do grind our meal, below the hill; An' turn'd the bridge, wi' arch a-spread, Below a road, vor us to tread.

They vound a pleaece, where we mid seek The gifts o' greaece vrom week to week; An' built wi' stwone, upon the hill, A tow'r we still do call our own; With bells to use, an' meaeke rejaice, Wi' giant vaice, at our good news: An' lifted stwones an' beams to keep The rain an' cwold vrom us asleep.

Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget The pattern our vorefathers zet; But each be faein to underteaeke Some work to meaeke vor others' gain, That we mid leaeve mwore good to sheaere, Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve, An' when our hands do vall to rest, It mid be vrom a work a-blest.

THE WOLD VO'K DEAD.

My days, wi' wold vo'k all but gone, An' childern now a-comen on, Do bring me still my mother's smiles In light that now do show my chile's; An' I've a-sheaer'd the wold vo'ks' me'th, Avore the burnen Chris'mas he'th, At friendly bwoards, where feaece by feaece, Did, year by year, gi'e up its pleaece, An' leaeve me here, behind, to tread The ground a-trod by wold vo'k dead.

But wold things be a-lost vor new, An' zome do come, while zome do goo: As wither'd beech-tree leaves do cling Among the nesh young buds o' Spring; An' fretten worms ha' slowly wound, Droo beams the wold vo'k lifted sound, An' trees they planted little slips Ha' stems that noo two eaerms can clips; An' grey an' yollow moss do spread On buildens new to wold vo'k dead.

The backs of all our zilv'ry hills, The brook that still do dreve our mills, The roads a-climen up the brows O' knaps, a-screen'd by meaeple boughs, Wer all a-mark'd in sheaede an' light Avore our wolder fathers' zight, In zunny days, a-gied their hands For happy work, a-tillen lands, That now do yield their childern bread Till they do rest wi' wold vo'k dead.

But liven vo'k, a-grieven on, Wi' lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone, Do zee their goodness, but do vind All else a-stealen out o' mind; As air do meaeke the vurthest land Look feaeirer than the vield at hand, An' zoo, as time do slowly pass, So still's a sheaede upon the grass, Its wid'nen speaece do slowly shed A glory roun' the wold vo'k dead.

An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, That they mid only know above, Their times o' faith, an' jay, an' love, While all the evil time ha' brought 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; As all the moon that idden bright, 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; And all the godly life they led Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.

If things be zoo, an' souls above Can only mind our e'thly love, Why then they'll veel our kindness drown The thoughts ov all that meaede em frown. An' jay o' jays will dry the tear O' sadness that do trickle here, An' nothen mwore o' life than love, An' peace, will then be know'd above. Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, Is still a pleasure to the dead.

CULVER DELL AND THE SQUIRE.

There's noo pleaece I do like so well, As Elem Knap in Culver Dell, Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, Did rise avore the western clouds; An' stan' ageaen, wi' veathery tops, A-swayen up in North-Hill Copse. An' on the east the mornen broke Above a dewy grove o' woak: An' noontide shed its burnen light On ashes on the southern height; An' I could vind zome teaeles to tell, O' former days in Culver Dell.

An' all the vo'k did love so well The good wold squire o' Culver Dell, That used to ramble drough the sheaedes O' timber, or the burnen gleaedes, An' come at evenen up the leaeze Wi' red-eaer'd dogs bezide his knees. An' hold his gun, a-hangen drough His eaermpit, out above his tooe. Wi' kindly words upon his tongue, Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, Vor he did know the poor so well 'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.

An' while the woaek, wi' spreaden head, Did sheaede the foxes' verny bed; An' runnen heaeres, in zunny gleaedes, Did beaet the grasses' quiv'ren' bleaedes; An' speckled pa'tridges took flight In stubble vields a-feaeden white; Or he could zee the pheasant strut In sheaedy woods, wi' painted cwoat; Or long-tongued dogs did love to run Among the leaves, bezide his gun; We didden want vor call to dwell At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.

But now I hope his kindly feaece Is gone to vind a better pleaece; But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind, Vor all his springy-vooted hounds Ha' done o' trotten round his grounds, An' we have all a-left the spot, To teaeke, a-scatter'd, each his lot; An' even Father, lik' the rest, Ha' left our long vorseaeken nest; An' we should vind it sad to dwell, Ageaen at hwome in Culver Dell.

The airy mornens still mid smite Our windows wi' their rwosy light, An' high-zunn'd noons mid dry the dew On growen groun' below our shoe; The blushen evenen still mid dye, Wi' viry red, the western sky; The zunny spring-time's quicknen power Mid come to oben leaf an' flower; An' days an' tides mid bring us on Woone pleasure when another's gone. But we must bid a long farewell To days an' tides in Culver Dell.

OUR BE'THPLACE.

How dear's the door a latch do shut, An' geaerden that a hatch do shut, Where vu'st our bloomen cheaeks ha' prest The pillor ov our childhood's rest; Or where, wi' little tooes, we wore The paths our fathers trod avore; Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft, Below the zingen lark aloft, The while we heaerd the echo sound Drough all the ringen valley round.

A lwonesome grove o' woak did rise, To screen our house, where smoke did rise, A-twisten blue, while yeet the zun Did langthen on our childhood's fun; An' there, wi' all the sheaepes an' sounds O' life, among the timber'd grounds, The birds upon their boughs did zing, An' milkmaids by their cows did zing, Wi' merry sounds, that softly died, A-ringen down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi' reeds a-bound, An' sheenen pools, wi' weeds a-bound, The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; An' striden peewits heaesten'd by, O' tiptooe wi' their screamen cry; An' stalken cows a-lowen loud, An' strutten cocks a-crowen loud, Did rouse the echoes up to mock Their mingled sounds by hill an' rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark, Above our sleepen eyes all dark, An' zuns a-rollen round to bring The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring, Ha' vled, wi' never-resten flight, Drough green-bough'd day, an' dark-tree'd night; Till now our childhood's pleaeces there, Be gay wi' other feaeces there, An' we ourselves do vollow on Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.

THE WINDOW FREAeM'D WI' STWONE.

When Pentridge House wer still the nest O' souls that now ha' better rest, Avore the vier burnt to ground His beams an' walls, that then wer sound, 'Ithin a nail-bestudded door, An' passage wi' a stwonen vloor, There spread the hall, where zun-light shone In drough a window freaem'd wi' stwone.

A clavy-beam o' sheenen woak Did span the he'th wi' twisten smoke, Where fleaemes did shoot in yollow streaks, Above the brands, their flashen peaks; An' aunt did pull, as she did stand O'-tip-tooe, wi' her lifted hand, A curtain feaeded wi' the zun, Avore the window freaem'd wi' stwone.

When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon, Wer damp wi' evenen dew in June, An' aunt did call the maidens in Vrom walken, wi' their shoes too thin, They zot to rest their litty veet Upon the window's woaken seat, An' chatted there, in light that shone In drough the window freaem'd wi' stwone.

An' as the seasons, in a ring, Roll'd slowly roun' vrom Spring to Spring, An' brought em on zome holy-tide, When they did cast their tools azide; How glad it meaede em all to spy In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh, As they did know em all by neaeme Out drough the window's stwonen freaeme.

O evenen zun, a-riden drough The sky, vrom Sh'oton Hill o' blue, To leaeve the night a-brooden dark At Stalbridge, wi' its grey-wall'd park; Small jay to me the vields do bring, Vor all their zummer birds do zing, Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleaeme In drough the window's stwonen freaeme.

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.

Oh! aye! the spring 'ithin the leaene, A-leaeden down to Lyddan Brook; An' still a-nesslen in his nook, As weeks do pass, an' moons do weaene. Nwone the drier, Nwone the higher, Nwone the nigher to the door Where we did live so long avore.

An' oh! what vo'k his mossy brim Ha' gathered in the run o' time! The wife a-blushen in her prime; The widow wi' her eyezight dim; Maidens dippen, Childern sippen, Water drippen, at the cool Dark wallen ov the little pool.

Behind the spring do lie the lands My father till'd, vrom Spring to Spring, Awaeiten on vor time to bring The crops to pay his weary hands. Wheat a-growen, Beaens a-blowen, Grass vor mowen, where the bridge Do leaed to Ryall's on the ridge.

But who do know when liv'd an' died The squier o' the mwoldren hall; That lined en wi' a stwonen wall, An' steaen'd so cleaen his wat'ry zide? We behind en, Now can't vind en, But do mind en, an' do thank His meaeker vor his little tank.

THE POPLARS.

If theaese day's work an' burnen sky 'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I, Let's zit an' rest 'ithin the screen O' my wold bow'r upon the green; Where I do goo myself an' let The evenen aier cool my het, When dew do wet the grasses bleaedes, A-quiv'ren in the dusky sheaedes.

There yonder poplar trees do play Soft music, as their heads do sway, While wind, a-rustlen soft or loud, Do stream ageaen their lofty sh'oud; An' seem to heal the ranklen zore My mind do meet wi' out o' door, When I've a-bore, in downcast mood, Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

O' they two poplars that do rise So high avore our naighbours' eyes, A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, Wi' grammer, in their bit o' land; The woone upon the western zide Wer his, an' woone wer grammer's pride, An' since they died, we all do teaeke Mwore ceaere o'm vor the wold vo'k's seaeke.

An' there, wi' stems a-growen tall Avore the houses mossy wall, The while the moon ha' slowly past The leafy window, they've a-cast Their sheaedes 'ithin the window peaene; While childern have a-grown to men, An' then ageaen ha' left their beds, To bear their childern's heavy heads.

THE LINDEN ON THE LAWN.

No! Jenny, there's noo pleaece to charm My mind lik' yours at Woakland farm, A-peaerted vrom the busy town, By longsome miles ov airy down, Where woonce the meshy wall did gird Your flow'ry geaerden, an' the bird Did zing in zummer wind that stirr'd The spreaeden linden on the lawn.

An' now ov all the trees wi' sheaedes A-wheelen round in Blackmwore gleaedes, There's noo tall poplar by the brook, Nor elem that do rock the rook, Nor ash upon the shelven ledge, Nor low-bough'd woak bezide the hedge, Nor withy up above the zedge, So dear's thik linden on the lawn.

Vor there, o' zummer nights, below The wall, we zot when air did blow, An' sheaeke the dewy rwose a-tied Up roun' the window's stwonen zide. An' while the carter rod' along A-zingen, down the dusky drong, There you did zing a sweeter zong Below the linden on the lawn.

An' while your warbled ditty wound Drough playsome flights o' mellow sound, The nightengeaele's sh'ill zong, that broke The stillness ov the dewy woak, Rung clear along the grove, an' smote To sudden stillness ev'ry droat; As we did zit, an' hear it float Below the linden on the lawn.