Wild Flowers by Robert Bloomfield (e book reader free TXT) 📕

then that native loveliness! that cheek!
It bore the very tints her betters seek;
At such a sight the libertine would glow,
With all the warmth that _he_ can ever know;
Would send his thoughts abroad without control,
The glimmering moon-shine of his little soul.
"Above the reach of justice I shall soar,
Her friends may weep, not punish; they're too poor:
That very thought the rapture will enhance,
Poor, young, and friendless; what a glorious chance!

Herbert's Character.

A few spare guineas may the conquest make,--
I love the treachery for treachery's sake,--
And when her wounded honour jealous grows,
I'll cut away ten thousand oaths and vows,
And tell my comrades, with a manly stride,
How I, _a girl out-witten and out-lied_."
Such was not Herbert--he had never known
Love's genuine smiles, nor suffer'd from his frown;
And as to that most honourable part
Of planting daggers in a parent's heart,
A novice quite:--he past his hours away,
Free as a bird and buxom as the day;
Yet, should a lovely girl by chance arise,
Think not that Herbert Brooks would shut his eyes.

On thy calm joys with what delight I dream,
Thou dear green valley of my native stream!

Regret for Devastation by Enclosures.

Fancy o'er thee still waves th' enchanting wand,
And every nook of thine is fairy land,
And ever will be, though the axe should smite
In Gain's rude service, and in Pity's spite,
Thy clustering alders, and at length invade
The last, last poplars, that compose thy shade:
Thy stream shall then in native freedom stray,
And undermine the willows in its way,
These, nearly worthless, may survive this storm,
This scythe of desolation call'd "Reform."
No army past that way! yet are they fled,
The boughs that, when a school-boy, screen'd my head:
I hate the murderous axe; estranging more
The winding vale from what it was of yore,
Than e'en mortality in all its rage,
And all the change of faces in an age.

The Tale pursued.

"Warmth," will they term it, that I speak so free?
They strip thy shades,--thy shades so dear to me!
In Herbert's days woods cloth'd both hill and dale;
But peace, Remembrance! let us tell the tale.

His home was in the valley, elms grew round
His moated mansion, and the pleasant sound
Of woodland birds that loud at day-break sing,
With the first cuckoos that proclaim the spring,
Flock'd round his dwelling; and his kitchen smoke,
That from the towering rookery upward broke,
Of joyful import to the poor hard by,
Stream'd a glad sign of hospitality;
So fancy pictures; but its day is o'er;
The moat remains, the dwelling is no more!
Its name denotes its melancholy fall,
For village children call the spot "Burnt-Hall."

The Church.

But where's the maid, who in the meadow-way
Met Herbert Brooks amongst the new-mown hay?

Th' adventure charm'd him, and next morning rose
The Sabbath, with its silence and repose,
The bells ceas'd chiming, and the broad blue sky
Smil'd on his peace, and met his tranquil eye
Inverted, from the foot-bridge on his way
To that still house where all his fathers lay;
There in his seat, each neighbour's face he knew--
The stranger girl was just before his pew!
He saw her kneel, with meek, but cheerful air,
And whisper the response to every prayer;
And, when the humble roof with praises rung,
He caught the Hallelujah from her tongue,
Rememb'ring with delight the tears that fell
When the poor father bade his child farewell;

Love strengthened by Reflection.

And now, by kindling tenderness beguil'd,
He blest the prompt obedience of that child,
And link'd his fate with hers:--for, from that day,
Whether the weeks past cheerily away,
Or deep revolving doubts procur'd him pain,
The same bells chim'd--and there she was again!
What could be done? they came not there to woo,
On holy ground,--though love is holy too.

They met upon the foot-bridge one clear morn,
She in the garb by village lasses worn;
He, with unbutton'd frock that careless flew,
And buskin'd to resist the morning dew;
With downcast look she courtsied to the ground,
Just in his path--no room to sidle round.

An Interview.

"Well, pretty girl, this early rising yields
The best enjoyment of the groves and fields,
And makes the heart susceptible and meek,
And keeps alive that rose upon your cheek.
I long'd to meet you, Peggy, though so shy,
I've watch'd your steps and learn'd your history;
You love your poor lame father, let that be
A happy presage of your love for me.
Come then, I'll stroll these meadows by your side,
I've seen enough to wish you for my bride,
And plainly tell you so.--Nay, let me hold
This guiltless hand, I prize it more than gold;
Of that I have my share, but now pursue
Such lasting wealth as I behold in you.
My lands are fruitful and my gardens gay,
My houshold cheerful as the summer's day;
One blessing more will crown my happy life,
Like Adam, pretty girl, I want a wife."

Frequent Meetings.--Family Pride.

Need it be told his suit was not denied,
With youth, and wealth, and candour on his side
Honour took charge of love so well began,
And accidental meetings, one by one,
Increas'd so fast midst time's unheeded flight,
That village rumour married them outright;
Though wiser matrons, doubtful in debate,
Pitied deluded Peggy's hapless fate.
Friends took th' alarm, "And will he then disgrace
"The name of Brooks with this plebeian race?"
Others, more lax in virtue, not in pride,
Sported the wink of cunning on one side;
"He'll buy, no doubt, what Peggy has to sell,
A little gallantry becomes him well."
Meanwhile the youth with self-determin'd aim,
Disdaining fraud, and pride's unfeeling claim,

Marriage proposed

Above control pursued his generous way,
And talk'd to Peggy of the marriage day.
Poor girl! she heard, with anguish and with doubt,
What her too knowing neighbours preach'd about,
That Herbert would some nobler match prefer,
And surely never, never marry her;
Yet, with what trembling and delight she bore
The kiss, and heard the vow, "I'll doubt no more;"
"Protect me Herbert, for your honour's sake
You will," she cried, "nor leave my heart to break."
Then wrote to uncle Gilbert, joys, and fears,
And hope, and trust, and sprinkled all with tears.

Rous'd was the dormant spirit of the brave,
E'en lameness rose to succour and to save;
For, though they both rever'd young Herbert's name,
And knew his unexceptionable fame;

Doubts.--Parental Feelings.

And though the girl had honestly declar'd
Love's first approaches, and their counsel shar'd,
Yet, that he truly meant to take for life
The poor and lowly Peggy for a wife;
Or, that she was not doom'd to be deceiv'd,
Was out of bounds:--it _could not_ be believ'd.
"Go, Gilbert; save her; I, you know, am lame;
Go, brother, go; and save my child from shame.
Haste, and I'll pray for your success the while,
Go, go;"--then bang'd his crutch upon the stile:--
It snapt.--E'en Gilbert trembled while he smote,
Then whipt the broken end beneath his coat;
"Aye, aye, I'll settle them; I'll let them see
Who's to be conqu'ror this time, I or he!"

Gilbert on the Road!--An Adventure.

Then off he set, and with enormous strides,
Rebellious mutterings and oaths besides,
O'er clover-field and fallow, bank and brier,
Pursu'd the nearest cut, and fann'd the fire
That burnt within him.--Soon the Hall he spied,
And the grey willows by the water side;
Nature cried "halt!" nor could he well refuse;
Stop, Gilbert, breathe awhile, and ask _the news_.
"News?" cried a stooping grandame of the vale,
Aye, rare news too; I'll tell you such a tale;
But let me rest; this bank is dry and warm;
Do you know Peggy Meldrum at the farm?
Young Herbert's girl? He'as cloath'd her all in white.
You never saw so beautiful a sight!
Ah! he's a fine young man, and such a face!
I knew his grandfather and all his race;
He rode a tall white horse, and look'd so big,
But how shall I describe his hat and wig?"

A promising Story cut short.

"Plague take his wig," cried Gilbert, "and his hat,
Where's Peggy Meldrum? can you tell me _that_?"
"Aye; but have patience man, you'll hear anon,
For I shall come to her as I go on,
So hark 'ye friend; his grandfather I say,"--
"Poh, poh,"--cried Gilbert, as he turn'd away.
Her eyes were fix'd, her story at a stand,
The snuff-box lay half open'd in her hand;
"You great ill-manner'd clown! but I must bear it;
You oaf; to ask the news, and then won't hear it!"
But Gilbert had gain'd forty paces clear,
When the reproof came murmuring on his ear.

Again he ask'd the first that past him by;
A cow-boy stopt his whistle to reply.
"Why, I've a mistress coming home, that's all,
They're playing Meg's diversion at the Hall;

A Cow-Boy's Bravery

"For master's gone, with Peggy, and his cousin,
And all the lady folks, about a dozen,
To church, down there; he'll marry one no doubt,
For that it seems is what they're gone about;
I know it by their laughing and their jokes,
Tho' they _wor'nt_ ask'd at church like other folks."

Gilbert kept on, and at the Hall-door found
The winking servants, where the jest went round:
All expectation; aye, and so was he,
But not with heart so merry and so free.
The kitchen table, never clear from beef,
Where hunger found its solace and relief,
Free to all strangers, had no charms for him,
For agitation worried every limb;
Ale he partook, but appetite had none,
And grey-hounds watch'd in vain to catch the bone.

Sitting upon Thorns.

All sounds alarm'd him, and all thoughts perplex'd,
With dogs, and beef, himself, and all things vex'd,
Till with one mingled caw above his head,
Their gliding shadows o'er the court-yard spread,
The rooks by thousands rose: the bells struck up;
He guess'd the cause, and down he set the cup,
And listening, heard, amidst the general hum,
A joyful exclamation, "Here they come!"--
Soon Herbert's cheerful voice was heard above,
Amidst the rustling hand-maids of his love,
And Gilbert follow'd without thought or dread,
The broad oak stair-case thundr'd with his tread;
Light tript the party, gay as gay could be,
Amidst their bridal dresses--there came he!
And with a look that guilt could ne'er withstand,
Approach'd his niece and caught her by the hand,

Anger disarmed.

"Now are you married, Peggy, yes or no?
Tell me at once, before I let you go!"
Abrupt he spoke, and gave her arm a swing,
But the same moment felt the wedding ring,
And stood confus'd.--She wip'd th' empassion'd tear,
"I am, I am; but is my father here?"
Herbert stood by, and sharing with his bride,
That perturbation which she strove to hide;
"Come, honest Gilbert, you're too rough this time,
Indeed here's not the shadow of a crime;
But where's your brother? When did you arrive?
We waited long, for Nathan went at five!"

All this was Greek to Gilbert, downright Greek:
He knew not what to think, nor how to speak.
The case was this; that Nathan with a cart
To fetch them both at day-break was to start,

An Explanation.

And so he did--but ere he could proceed,
He suck'd a charming portion with a reed,
Of that same wedding-ale, which was that day
To make the hearts of all the village gay;
Brim full of glee he trundled from the Hall,
And as for sky-larks, he out-sung them all;
Till growing giddy with his morning cup.
He,