John Bradford: Verses about Nature

There may be lands more fair than mine,
With skies of cloudless blue,
Where morning's dewdrops brighter shine
On flowers of deeper hue,
Which I might see were I to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood's home.

But while beneath this cloud-fleck'd sky
The rose and violet bloom.
And load each breeze that wanders by
With freights of rich perfume,
Tve joys I prize too much to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood's home.

There may be lands beyond the main
Where lofty mountains rise.
While over forest, lake, aud plain,
The soaring eagle flies.
Which I might see were I to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood's home.

But while the hills around me raise
Their wooded slopes on high.
Where wild birds strive, in joyous lays,
Each other to outvie,
I've joys I prize too much to roam
Afar from thee, my childhood's home.

Come away, gentle Clare, to the banks of the Wye,
While the stars of the earth shine to gladden thine eye,
And the sward of the dell by the hazel-wood grove
Is a carpet most meet for thy light feet to rove ;
While the echoes repeat the wild bird's gushing song ;
While the bright babbling brook goes careering along ;
And all things are so fair no delights can outvie
The delights that abound on the banks of the Wye.

On Maplecliffe's top there's a wide-spreading yew.
From beneath whose dark boughs the glad eye gains a view
Of a prospect so grand thy pure heart can but praise,
As away o'er its beauties thy bright blue eyes gaze ;
For the smooth-gliding river, the oak, elm, and pine.
Will enrapture a soul so susceptive as thine ;
Then bid the gay city's allurements good bye,
And repair to the beautiful banks of the Wye.

Drawn fresh from the founts of perennial joy.
The delights of thy mind shall be free from alloy ;
For in cool, quiet glades, where the leafy boughs wave.
We'll peruse the wise words of the learned and grave ;
And, as gaily we roam the bright valleys along,
Eehearse the sweet strains of the Children of Song,
Then bid the gay city's allurements good bye,
And repair to the beautiful banks of the Wye.

The sage's rich lore and the poet's sweet lay,
The fields gaily dight in their choicest array ;
The musical brook and the leaf-vestur'd tree,
Are ready to yield their enjoyments to thee,
For delights such as these that thine advent await
A Queen might abandon her splendour and state.
Then bid the gay city's allurements good bye,
And repair to the beautiful banks of the Wye.

Come to the Wyeside ! come with me !
Unhappy here thou canst but be ;
For gentle hearts abhor the strife
That is in towns for ever rife.

The scenes around the peaceful grange
Have undergone but little change
Since years ago thou leftist thy home,
By false ambition lur'd to roam.

The churchyard has a few more graves,
O'er most of which the long grass waves ;
But some there are, all fair with flowers.
Which bloom above lost friends of ours.

The path is stopped through Beechwood dell,
For strangers now st. Beechwood dwell,
And down beside the village pool
No more thou'lt see the village school.

But still thou'lt hear the rippling rills ;
And still thou'lt see the tree-clad hills ;
For Nature's charms are now as fair
As when we roam'd in childhood there.

The Wye is still as pure a stream
As when thereby we lov'd to dream
The day-dreams bright of bygone years.
Unconscious that they'd end in tears.

Come, then, with me, and, as of old,
A sister's arms shall thee enfold ;
And smiles of love shall chase away
The cares that on thy sad heart prey.

When Spring in peerless beauty reigns,
We'll rove the flower-enamell'd plains
By thee so lov'd and deem'd so fair,
Ere thy young heart knew aught of care.

In Summer's heat the hills we'll scale.
And on their tops the breeze inhale
That coolly comes from greenwood dells,
Where morning's freshness longest dwells.

In Winter's dark and stormy nights
We'll draw from books those pure delights,
Which they who seek may always find,
Where wit and wisdom lie enshrin'd.

I'll sing thee, too, thy boyhood's songs,
Till thoughts of old come back in throngs ;
And thou wilt marvel thou could'st stray
From home, and friends, and me away.

Come to the Wyeside, then, with me.
And I a home will make for thee.
Where feignless love and stainless truth
Shall bring thee back the peace of youth.

FROM sunny climes, beyond the main,
Come, potent Spring,
On rapid wing,
And glorify our isle again.

Banish the cold, ungenial snow.
From the high hills ;
Unbind the rills.
And in fair freedom let them flow

Through valleys lone and dingles wild ;
Where, as they pass,
They'll joy to glass
Bright blooms by no lude touch defil'd.

Cause me again, benignant Spring,
To pause and mark
The loud-voic'd lark,
While with his lays the valleys ring.

As high he soars, on pinions fleet,
0'er many a field
That soon will yield
Rich stores of barley, beans, and wheat.

The butterfly, on wing rich-hu'd,
Send forth again
O'er hill and plain
By urchin foemen unpursu'd ;

While the green robes of all the meads
Of daisies white
And kingcups bright
Profusely bear the beauteous beads.

Star deftly with anemones
The copses' moss ;
Let harebells toss
Their azure heads in every hreeze ;

While the shy cushat's mellow coo,
From far and near,
Falls on the ear,
Filling the heart with gladness true.

Let with the gorse's golden light
The commons flame,
And proudly claim
Meet notice from each passer's sight ;

While from the trees that round them stand.
The speckled thrush,
Gush after gush,
Pours forth his music sweetly bland.

Distilments rich of honey sweet
Let the wild bee
Delighted see
When it alights, with tiny feet.

On clover boss, pink, sweet and soft,
On orchis frail.
On primrose pale,
Or soars to chesnat cones aloft.

Let bush and tree rich raiment seek
From thy apt loom ;
Bring back the bloom
To many a patient's pain-pal'd cheek ;

And glad the heart of sinless childhood
With mirth and joy,
Free from alloy—
Found fairly so in glen and wildwood.

Quick use, sweet Spring, thy powers divine,
And loftier lays
Thy deeds shall praise
Then e'er can flow from pen of mine.

I love to ream a calm, secluded dell,
Where all the softest charms of nature dwell.
When from the hills around, wood-crown'd and high.
Fair Spring-time's tuneful rills go glancing by.
And fleets of clouds, as white as ocean's foam.
Serenely sail the sky's expanded dome ;
While in the oak the joyous mavis sings.
And every wood and grove with music rings.

I love to stand upon a high hill's crest,
And watch the sun sink in the glowing west,
Casting his beams, in floods of gorgeous light,
O'er forest, valley, rock, and river bright;
While fields of golden com, on every plain,
Proclaim full-handed Harvest near again ;
For, while the eye roves o'er a scene so fair.
The gladden'd heart throws off its load of care.

I love to pace a forest wild and lone.
When evening's sombre shades are o'er it thrown,
And through the tall trees' tops, with moanings drear.
The ruthless wind pursues its wild career.
Bearing from many a bending bough and spray
Its robes of soft autumnal hues away ;
While hosts of dying leaves around me cast.
Are types of those whose earthly hopes are past.

I love to ride upon the foaming ocean,
When the huge billows toss in wild commotion,
While overhead the thunder peals aloud,
And the bright lightning darts from cloud to cloud,—
When through the cordage strong the wild wind raves.
As the ship reels amid the seething waves.
And every mind is rapt in holy awe
Of Him who gives the raging storm its law.

But most of all I love a mournful lay.
Whose sad and plaintive notes the feelings sway,
As from a gentle maiden's tongue they fall,
In streams of sound that hold the ear in thrall,
Till Pity's pure, celestial tear is found
Gemming the moisten'd eyes of all around ;
And young hearts learn to sympathise with those
O'er whom a stormy sea of sorrow flows.

For such enthralling lays my sister sung,
When greedy Death's dark shades around her hung;—
When she in vain essay'd the tears to hide
That fill'd her eyes with their unwelcome tide,
As with a sad and grief-o'erladen heart
She saw all girlhood's golden dreams depart,
And her pale, wasting cheek's bright hectic glow
Proclaim'd the advent near of my first woe.

THE QUESTION.

DEAR to the bright cerulean sky
Unstirr'd the silvery cloudlets lie ;
O'er yonder wide, unruffl'd bay
The white-sail'd ships can make no way;
No rustling from the sedges near
Falls on the loitering listener's ear ;
From the old cottage in the croft
Straightly ascends the smoke aloft ;
The spreading oak, the silver birch.
The yew beside the village church,
And the tall pine upon the hill.
Are all at rest—serenely still ;
No zephyrs o'er the meadows pass
With balmy breath to fan the grass,
Or raise a ripple on the river ;
Why, aspen, then, dost thou still quiver?

THE ANSWER.

O'er eighteen hundred years ago,
Where Jordan's amber waters flow,
Green, graceful, calm, and fair to view,
My ruthless old forefathers grew ;
But, on a morn of spring-tide bright.
When, from the blue unclouded sky,
The sun shone down with dazzling light.
Inviting flowers of varied dye
Their fragile petals to unfold.
And glad the bees that rov'd the plains,
Filling the birds with joy untold,
The air with their melodious strains ;
Wiling the adder from its lair,
And making all Creation's face,
From high hill's top to rough rock's base,
Bright, peaceful, smiling, calm, and fair ;
Up Jordan's vale an angel flew,
Array'd in robes of lily hue,
Exclaiming, as she wing'd her way.
In accents fraught with dire dismay :—
' Weep, flocks and herds ;
Weep, beasts and birds ;
Weep, flowers and trees ;
Weep, adders and bees ;
Weep, insects small ;
Weep, creatures all ;
And let the joys you hold most dear
Give place to wonder, woe, and fear ;
For now, with insult, blow, and curse,
The God of all the Universe
By ruthless men, with impious zest,
Is being led
His blood to shed
On Calvary's gore-encrimson'd crest.'
Soon as these words of woe were said,
The flocks and herds no longer fed ;
The coney sought the loneliest dell ;
The bee forsook the floret's bell ;
The adder sought its lair again ;
No wild bird's song swept o'er the plain ;
No insect hummed its tiny strain ;
The flowers, rich in scent and hue,
Their beauties from the gaze withdrew ;
And every shrub and tree that grew,
Excepting my forefathers proud,
In fear and awe their branches bow'd ;
But they, on selfish joys intent,
With every breeze that through them went.
Still sported on without a pause ;
And in the waves that by them passed
With guilty pride their beauty glass'd.
As if of grief they had no cause.
But soon the sun its beams withdrew,
And such a gloom o'er earth was thrown,
As until then had ne'er been known—
Veiling all things around from view.
And while the lightning lit the air
With lurid and appalling glare ;
While the loud thunder, peal on peal,
Made the old hills' foundations reel ;
While the strong earthquake's mighty shocks
Asunder rent the hoary rocks ;
And those who in their graves had lain
Were seen to tread the earth again ;
In sap and fibre, bough and spray.
They felt a thrill of fear and pain ;
And when the darkness cleared away,
And Nature's face grew fair again.
The victims of remorse and grief
They trembling stood in every leaf ;
And since that day of anguish deep,
Not for the space of one brief hour
Have their descendants had the power
A single leaf at rest to keep ;
And thus, until the end of time,
They'll mourn for their forefathers' crime.

On a rough winter's night, when the stormy winds blew,
'Till the tiles from the top of my lone dwelling flew.
And against my frail lattice came pouring amain,
The big, hurrying drops of the storm-driven rain,
I sat all alone, by a log fire bright,
Heading page after page, with increasing delight—
For my soul was enthrall'd by the stern poet's spell—
Of Dante's appalling depiction of hell ;
But, aweary at last of the terrible theme,
I fell fast asleep, and I had a strange dream.

I dreamt that there came to my old easy chair
A being of beauty surpassingly rare,
Whose radiant form enraptur'd my sight
As she stood in the midst of a halo of light;
For the beams of her eyes were as bright and as mild,
As the beams of pure joy in the eyes of a child ;
And her tresses descended, in raven-hu'd rings,
O'er the folds of her robes and the plumes of her wings ;
While on a gemm'd fillet, her temples around,
In letters of gold, on a bright azure ground.
This beautiful legend of charity ran :—
'Each man should be kind to his own fellow man.'
And she said in a voice, whose sweet silvery sound
Twere a joy to have followed, the wide world around—
' Come, leave for awhile your old easy arm chair.
And follow me on through the regions of air ;
And scenes yo.u shall see near the place where you dwell,
As absorbing as are the sad tales poets tell.
Then, drawing me near to her radiant form,
She bore me away through the wild, raging storm—
O'er cottage and homestead, forest and plain,
And across a broad stream near an ivy-clad fane.
Where it foam'd up and chaf d with a passionate motion,
At the bridge that impeded its course to the ocean ;
And o'er the cold graves of the churchyard lone,
And the meadows and valleys with water o'erflown.
Then, rapidly gliding along, we went
O'er a rich man's domain, of a wide extent,
Where the tall pines bent down to the pitiless gale,
As it hurried along with a dismal wail,
And made in the oaks as deafening a roar.
As the raging waves make on a rock-bounded shore ;
And whilst lost in amaze that so pelting a storm.
Should not affect me, or ray guide's fragile form,
I found myself placed in a brilliant room.
On a rich carpet wove in an apt Turkish loom,
Where on ottoman, couch, and on deftly-carv'd chair,
Were seated the wealthy, the gay, and the fair.
Whose bright forms shone back from the mirrors tall.
That, glittering, hung on the tapestried wall.
While their ears were regal'd with a beautiful lay
That told of true love in a land far away.
When away the last notes of the sweet song had died,
In a sorrowful voice thus began my fair guide—
'I have wafted you here to show you the way
In which owners of wealth oft unthinkingly play
Their own pleasant parts in the drama of life,
While want and affiction around them are rife.
These gentlemen brave, and these ladies fair.
Have just left a board on which viands most rare
Were spread in a manner most lavishly vain ;
For the vineyards of France, and the valleys of Spain,
The sea and the homestead, the forest and field,
Their produce to grace it were all made to yield ;
And now here, where all is most brilliant and bright,
Away they will pass the remains of the night.
With music and song, and sweet social glee.
While their hearts from all sorrow and care are free ;
And they have not a thought of the want and the woe
That exist in the homes of the village below.
But their joys will be dy'd with a guilt-tinted stain
While such want and such woe shall unheeded remain.'
Then she drew me again near her radiant form.
And bore me away through the pitiless storm ;
And, as quick as a prayer mounts up to God's throne,
Or His mercy to penitent sinners is shown,
I was wafted away to a cold, cheerless room,
Where all was misery, soyrow, and gloom,
Where a wretched man lay on a bed of pain,
And a wile to console him was trying in vain ;
While a grate without fire, and a rushlight pale.
Of the bitterest want were proclaiming a tale.
'The sick man who lies there ' said my beautiful guide,
'With none of a sick man's needs supplied,
Spent the prime of his life in tilling the soil
Of rich men, who paid ill for his wearisome toil,
While they dwelt in such homes as I show'd you to-night—
Where all was most beautiful, joyous, and bright ;
And now sickness and pain have his arms unnerv'd,
He is left as you see by those whom he serv'd.
Then over his pallet she hovering flew,
While his life's latest breath in deep anguish he drew ;
And his agoniz'd wife, in alarm and dismay,
Bent, sorrowing, over his soulless clay.'
'He is dead?' she exclaim'd, with a soul-searching scream
That ended at once both my sleep and my dream.
But I shall not have dreamt, or have told it, in vain.
If it move but one heart to alleviate pain.

A Fragment.

In Fancy's realm I saw a teeming vale
In which there lay a homestead old and rude,
Whose fields with flocks and herds were thickly strew'd—
Telling of rural peace a pleasant tale.
It was an eve in hright and busy May—
So beautiful and calm that not a sound,
Except the wild bird's mellow vesper lay,
Broke through the stillness deep that reign'd around.

The joyous lark had ceas'd to soar on high,
The flowers begun to close their petals briglit.
Toil-weary bees to wing their hivebound flight,
And now and then a timid hare ran by.
Down by a gloomy wood of beeches large
A streamlet bright ran with a noiseless flow
Towards the sea ; while on its verdant marge
A pensive Maiden stray'd with footsteps slow.

Her form was tall, symmetrical, and slight ;
Her lofty brow deep thought's impression bore ;
Her cheeks the bloom of waning girlhood wore ;
Her eyes were dark and beautifully bright ;
Her crimson-snooded locks so deep in dye
No raven's wing could be more darkly fair ;
Her garments plain, but pleasing to the eye.
And such as peasants girls were wont to wear.

Immers'd in thought she wandered on until
A lofty beech she gain'd ; beneath whose boughs,
With golden radiance haloing their brows,
She saw fair messengers of Heaven's will.
Who bade her go and lead her country's hosts,
Against its proud and unrelenting foes;—
To quell their haughty and insulting boasts,
And free fair France from fell invasion's woes.

* * * * * *

Clad in the shining armour of a knight.
Mounted upon a richly-bridled steed.
Matchless in strength, docility, and speed,
And bearing in her hand a banner white.
The Maid, attended by a cavalcade
Of soldiers, knights, esquires, and pages gay,
Her entry into leagured Orleans made.
Filling its foes with terror and dismay.

Tired with a morn of toil, asleep she lay ;
Her colour went and came in gushes fleet ;
And starting with a bound upon her feet,
She cried aloud in accents of dismay: —

'Twas midnight dark ; and as she rode along
Its gloomy streets, amid the plaudits loud
Of an o'erjoyed, enthusiastic crowd.
The lurid sky was lit with lightnings strong,
And the murk air with peals of thunder rent ;
But on amidst the elemental strife,
To its cathedral old, their way they bent,
Whose aisles were soon with glad Te Deums rife.

* * * * * *

Tired with a morn of toil, asleep she lay;
Her colour went and came in gushes fleet;
And starting with a bound upon her feet,
She cried aloud in accents of dismay: —
'My arms ! My arms ! My horse ! The blood of France
I Is ebbing fast from many a noble heart ;
Quick ! Quick ! My arms ! 'Twill be a dire mischance
If in the strife I fail to bear my part.'

Quickly in glittering armour she was dight ;
Quickly her banner and her steed were brought ;
And mounting with the speed of swift-wing'd thought,
She shook her bridle-rein and sought the fight.
Led by the sounds of conflict in the air,
Full soon she saw bright-gleaming weapons sway,
And waving o'er her head her standard fair.
Fearlessly plung'd into the bloody fray.

For three hour's space the conflict rag'd amain ;
And ever in the thickest of the fight
The Maiden waved aloft her banner white,
While round her lay the wounded and the slain.
But still, despite the culverins' loud roar—
The barbed arrows' flight, the sabre's sway,
And groans of brave men weltering in their gore.
She urged the troops to keep their onward way.

Anon they gain'd and storm'd a fortress strong;
Within those walls there raged such deadly strife,
Few of its garrison escaped with life—
So desperately did they the fight prolong.
At last the dreadful conflict reached its close,
And not a living foe remained in view ;
When the glad victors' shouts of triumph rose,
And sated Havoc from the scene withdrew.

* * * * * *

In Rouen's market-place there is a stake,
EncircPd by a pile of pitch-smeared wood ;
Hound which there stands a throng of soldiers rude-
Hoping at last their vengeance dire to slake ;
And, through the grave and anxious crowd around,
The Maid is brought along, o'erwhelmed with woe,
And to the stake with heavy chains is bound—
The fearful death of fire to undergo.

Her long, luxurious raven locks, whose flow
Was wont erewhile to be so neatly checkt,
Are floating all in wildness and neglect
Adown her graceful neck of stainless snow.
Her ear, that drank the tunes of streamlets clear,
And loved the joyous wild bird's gushing song,
Is now assail'd by insult, scoff, and jeer,
From ruthless foes that thickly round her throng.

Her eye, that fed in happy, bygone days.
On changeful nature's most alluring charms.
Upon a mass of mail-clad men-at-arms
Is casting now its sad, uneasy gaze.
A sign to light the pyre is made at last ;
Eelentless hands the ready lights apply.
And soon the smoke ascends in volumes vast.
Veiling the victim frail from every eye.

In silence deep some moments pass away ;
A gust of wind to fury fans the pyre ;
And then her form is seen through sheets of fire—
Writhing about, to agony a prey.
Stern Horror's thrill shakes many a daring heart,
And many an eye sweet Pity's teardrop dims,
While cries of anguish from her lips depart,
As the hright flames curl rouud her quivering Hmhs.

But now more fiercely wild the huge fire grows—
The stake that held her up is burnt away—
And down she sinks. The flames have gained their prey,
And o'er her blistering form their hot lips close.
While this scene pass'd, God's priest assumed his place.
And o'er her held the Crucifix on high ;
So, gazing on Christ's sweet but woe-worn face,
She learnt resignedly her death to die.

* * * * * *

Enthusiasts, in an earthly cause,
These scenes go ponder well ;
Then weigh, against the world's applause,
The peace of some fair dell.
Of youth's illusions think no more,—
Ko longer pant for fame,
For virtue's wreath, unstained by gore,
Can joys unending claim.