Now this, now that, breaks short; with sudden jerk
He sinks, half falling; and recovering quick,
On legs of length unequal reels along.
Scarce on his seat can clinging knees sustain
The trembling rider: while the snow upheaves
In drifts athwart his course projected broad;
Or o'er the uncover'd gravel rattling sweeps,
Caught up in sudden eddies, and aloft,
Like smoke in suffocating volumes whirl'd.
The road he quits unwary, wandering wide
O'er the bleak waste mid brushwood wrapp'd in
Down rough declivities and fractured banks,
Through miry plashes, cavities unseen,
And bogs of treacherous surface; till afar
From all that meets his recollection borne,
Dismay'd by hazards scarce escaped, and dread
Of heavier perils imminent, he stands
Dismounted and aghast. Now Evening draws
Her gathering shades around; the tempest fierce
Drives fiercer. Chill'd within him sinks his heart,
Home crowds upon his bosom. The wild blast
Appall'd he hears, thinks on his wife and babes,
And doubts if ever he shall see them more.
But comfort is at hand; the skies have spent
In that last gust their fury. From the west
The setting sun with horizontal gleam [breach
Cleaves the dense clouds; and through the golden
Strikes the scathed oak, whose branches peel'd and
'Gainst the retiring darkness of the storm (bare
With fiery lustre glow. The traveller views
The well known landmark, lifts to heaven his eyes
Swimming with gratitude, the friendly track
Regains, and speeds exulting on his way.
THE FERN BURNER.
YET cannot heat's meridian rage deter
The cottage-matron from her annual toil.
On that rough bank behold her bent to reap
The full-grown fern, her harvest, and prepare
Her ashy balls of purifying fame.
Lo! yon bare spot she destines for the hearth;
Now strikes the steel, the tinder covers light
With wither'd leaves and dry; now stoops to fan
The glimmering sparks, and motionless remains,
Watching the infant flame from side to side
Run through the thin materials. Round her stray
Children or grandchildren, a cheerful train,
Dispersed among the bushes; earnest each
To execute the task her nod assigns,
Half sport, half labour, fit for early youth.
One plies the hook, the rake another trails;
Another, staggering, bears the verdant load
Uplifted in his arms; another hastes
Her apron's burden to discharge. Each step
Active and promp obedience quickens, zeal
Inspired by love; the temper of the soul
Which to the parent most endears the child,
The Christian to his God. Well pleased the dame
Receives their tribute; part she heaps aside
In store for night, the embers to preserve
From quenching dews; part on the kindled pile
Adroit she sprinkles; duly with her fork
Then opes the sinking strata to admit
Currents of needful air; at every gale
The enliven'd mass glows bright, and crackles loud.
Puffing from numerous chinks the smoke unfolds
Its wreathed volumes; not as when, condensed
By evening's gelid atmosphere, it creeps
Below the hill, and draws along the ground
Its lengthen'd train, and spreading as it rolls,
Melts in blue vapour; but aspiring shoots
Its growth columnar, and displays afar
Its broad and dusky head, to pilgrim's eye
As view'd o'er Salem's plain the palm ascends.
Hence shall the matron in the distant town
With lifted hands her snowy flax admire,
And scorn the produce of Hibernian looms.
I SEE a column of slow-rising smoke
O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild;
A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Their miserable meal. A kettle slung
Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,
Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd
From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race!
They pick their fuel out of every hedge,
Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide
Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,
The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Great skill have they in palmistry, and more
To conjure clean away the gold they touch,
Conveying worthless dross into its place;
Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.
Strange that a creature rational and cast
In human mould should brutalize by choice
His nature; and though capable of arts
By which the world might profit, and himself,
Self-banish'd from society, prefer
Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!
Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft
They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,
And vex their flesh with artificial sores,
Can change their whine into a mirthful note
When safe occasion offers; and with dance
And music of the bladder and the bag
Beguile their woes and make the woods resound.
Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy
The houseless rovers of the silvan world; [much,
And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering
Need other physic none to heal the effects
Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.
WRITTEN ON SEEING A PICTURE BY BERGHEM,
OF AN ASS IN A STORM-SHOWER.
POOR wretch! that blasted leafless tree,
More frail and deathlike e'en than thee,
Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form;
The sleet, the rain, the wind of heaven
Full in thy face are coldly driven,
As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. Yet, chill'd with cold and drench'd with rain, Mild creature, thou dost not complain
By sound or look of these ungracious skies; Calmly as if in friendly shed
There stand'st thou with unmoving head, And a grave patient meekness in thy half closed eyes.
Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze
On thee; nor am I loath to praise
Him who in moral mood this image drew; And yet, methinks, that I could frame
An image different, yet the same,
More pleasing to the heart, and yet to nature true.
Behold a lane retired and green,
Winding amid a forest scene
With blooming furze in many a radiant heap, There is a browsing ass espied,
One colt is frisking by her side,
And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.
And lo! a little maiden stands,
With thistles in her tender hands,
Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat; Or gently down before him lays, With words of solace and of praise,
Pluck'd from the' untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet.
The summer sun is sinking down,
And the peasants from the market town
With cheerful hearts are to their homes returning; Groups of gay children too are there,
Stirring with mirth the silent air,
O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.
The ass hath got his burden still!
The merry elves the panniers fill;
Delighted there from side to side they swing. The creature heeds nor shout nor call,
But jogs on careless of them all,
Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing.
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