British Georgics. May Poem by James Grahame

Sweet month! thy locks with bursting buds begemmed,
With opening hyacinths and hawthorn flowers,
Fair still thou art, though showers bedim thine eye.
The cloud soon leaves thy brow, and mild the sun
Looks out with watery beam, looks out and smiles.

Light now the breezes sigh along the vale,
Gently they wave the rivulet's cascade,
And bend the flowers, making the lily stoop
As if to kiss its image in the stream,
Or curl, with gentlest breath, the glassy pool,
Aiding the treachery of the mimic fly,
While, crouching warily behind a bush,
The angler screened, with keenest eye intent,
Awaits the sudden rising of the trout :--
Down dips the feathery lure; the quivering rod
Bends low: in vain the well-hooked captive strives
To break the yielding line: his side upturned,
Ashore he's drawn, and, on the mossy bank
Weltering, he dyes the primrose with his blood.

How gay the fields! arrayed in lovely green
Of various tint : but deepest of them all
The clover ridge, where now at eve is heard
The corncraik's harsh, yet not unpleasing call,
Oft pausing, still renewed from place to place,
Vain all attempts to trace her by her note;
For, when the spot whence last it came is reached,
Again 'tis heard hoarse harping far behind,--
Till silenced by the mower's rasping stone.

No use to which the clover field is put
Repays so well as mowing for the stall,
For not a blade is wasted; while your herds,
Screened from the sun, and from molesting bite
Of vexing flies, peaceful enjoy the cool
And fragrant meal, or drowsy chew the cud.

In times of old, stall-feeding was unknown,
Save during winter months: inclosures then
Were rare, and every hill-side, every lea
And broomy bank, was vocal with the notes
Of rustic pipe, or rudely chaunted rhymes,
Responsive echoed wild from herd to herd,
Tending their charge of mingled sheep and kine.
And still there may be seen, on Scotia's braes,
The shepherd boy, with horn and club, and dog,
Couched on the chequered plaid, and, at a side,
His little turf-built hut, with boughs o'erlaid,
Wherein are placed, from sudden shower secure,
The Life of Wallace wight, with goodly store
Of ballads old and new, which oft he cons.
And thus, in pleasing solitude, he spends
His harmless, not unprofitable hours,
Till, by his brazen dial warned, he drives
Homeward, at noon, his flock.

O simple times
Of peaceful innocence, fast giving way
To Trade's encroaching power! Yes, Trade ere long
Will drive each older custom from the land,
Will drive each generous passion from the breast.
Even love itself, that in the peasant's heart
Was wont to glow with pure and constant flame,
Now burns less purely than in times of old;
A fatal sign. Yet still the 'trysting thorn'
Is seen to bloom elsewhere than in the song
Of youthful bard: Beneath the greenwood tree,
When on May morning, maids, to gather dew,
Hie to the primrose bank, the mutual vow
Is pledged, and hallowed kept, though absence, war,
And, keenest pang! supposed forgetfulness,
Comspire to shake the true and trusting heart:
Still in the gloamin, by the river side,
When calmness sleeps upon the smooth expanse,
And all is hush, save plunge of sportive trout,
(Propitious hour!) fond lovers meet and stray,
Forgetful of the time, till, from below
The adverse bank, peeps out the warning moon.

In moorland farms, the season now invites
Him, who would change the heath-flower for the pea,
To draw his drains both deep and broad, with sides
Of easy slope. Seldom three ells in width
And two in depth, are, by experience, found
Unsuitable. Where mosses level stretch,
With hoary caunachs bending in the blast,
There wider, deeper, scoop; for slowly there
The sable current flows: yet, to an eye
That's skilful, rarely will there want some line
Which, though descending with a gentle slope,
Scarcely perceptible, will yet afford
A fall sufficient to lay dry the whole.

But though laid dry, 'tis yet unfit to bear
The labouring team, and, for some years, the spade
Must turn the spongy soil, and form the ridge.
Chiefly with lime, profusely scattered, mix
The surface soil, while in a moistened state;
For, when devoid of moisture, moss resists
The caustic power, and lies a useless pulp.

From desarts thus reclaimed, some vainly hope
At once to reap a rustling crop, but find
Frustrate their hopes, and seed and labour lost.
During the first two years potatoes yield
A sure increase, abundant; for their leaves
Luxuriate shade the open soil, that else,
Unable to retain or dew or genial shower,
Arid and steril lies. Besides, the plants
Of taller stem require a firmer hold
Than moss affords, which, but by slow degrees
Subsiding into solid mould, displays
A waste transformed into a waving plain.

No more the heath-fowl there her nestling brood
Fosters, no more the dreary plover plains;
And when, from frozen regions of the pole,
The wintry bittern, to his wonted haunt,
On weary wing, returns, he finds the marsh
Into a joyless stubble-ridge transformed,
And mounts again to seek some watery wild.

These tribes, exiled, another resting place,
Adapted to their wants, soon find; but man,
When forced his dwelling-place to leave, the fields
Which he and his forefathers ploughed, and seeks,
Alas! to find some other home of peace,
Where he may live a tiller of the ground,
He seeks in vain; sad the reverse which he
And his are doomed to prove! -- no choice is left
But exile to a foreign shore, or, worse,
To darksome city lane. Behold the band
With some small remnant of their household gear,
Drawn by the horse which once they called their own;
Behold them take a last look of that roof,
From whence no smoke ascends, and onward move
In silence; whilst each passing object wakes
Remembrances of scenes that never more
Will glad their hearts ;-- the mill, the smiddy blaze
So cheerful, and the doubling hammer's clink
Now dying on the ear, now on the breeze
Heard once again. Ah, why that joyous bark
Precursive! Little dost thou ween, poor thing,
That ne'er again the slowly-stepping herd,
And nibbling flock, thou'lt drive a-field or home;
That ne'er again thou'lt chace the limping hare,
While, knowing well thy eager yelp, she scorns
Thy utmost speed, and, from the thistly lea
Espies, secure, thy puzzled fruitless search.
Now noisome alleys, and the crowded street,
Thy haunts must be.

But soon thou wilt forget
The cheerful fields; not so the infant train,
Thy playmates gay; not so the exiles old,
Who thought at last, below yon church-yard elms,
Now fading from their view, to lay their heads
In peace; they, old and young, ne'er will forget
Their former happy home. Oft from their high
And wretched roof, they look, trying, through clouds
Of driving smoke, a glimpse of the green fields
To gain, while, at the view, they feel their hearts
Sinking within them. Ah! these vain regrets
For happiness, that now is but a dream,
Are not their sorest evil; no, disease
(The harvest of the crowded house of toil,)
Approaches, withering first the opening bloom
Of infant years :-- As wild flowers, which the hand
Of roaming botanist, from some sweet bank,
Remote in woodland solitudes, transplants
To his rank garden mould, soon droop the head,
And languish till they die; so, pining, sink
These little ones. O! that heart-wringing cry,
To take them home, -- to take them home again,--
Their ceaseless, death-bed cry, poor innocents!
Repeated while the power to lisp is theirs;--
Alas! that home no more shall ye behold,
No more along the thistly lea pursue
The flying down; no more, transported, rush
From learning's humble door, with play-mates blythe,
To gather pebbles in the shallow burn;
Death is your comrade now, -- the grave your home.

O ye, whose princely territories stretch
Afar o'er hill and dale, think, -- ere ye sweep
Your ancient tenantry from off the land,--
That swollen rent-rolls are too dearly bought,
By that enormous misery which ye hurl
On ruined hundreds, to make way for one.

Some ousted husbandmen, when other lands
Are in their power, reject the golden boon,
And often rue the occasion lost, deterred
Too easily by fear, clothed in the garb
of prudence. Stunted crops, a scanty sward,
Though doubtful signs, the over-prudent scare
From lands oft times intrinsically rich.
Some signs there are by nature pointed out,
And not dependant on the care of man,
All things disguising; these will not mislead,
These you may trust. The herbs, hung round with bells,
Denote, unerringly, a soil that's dry;
And chief the fox-glove flower, wherein the bee
Diving, concealed, extracts ambrosial food.
The blue-bell, too, where'er the soil is moist,
Ascends the sheep-fold's turfy bound, and shakes
Its pretty flowerets in the July gale.

Profusion even of weeds, o'ertopping rank
The half-choaked growth of grain or pulse,
Though most unsightly to the well-skilled eye
Of husbandry, are signs, that in the soil
There is a vigorous, though neglected power.
Nor be forgot the broom's thick clustering blow,
Whose blazing brightness on a day of June
Dazzles the eye, making it fain to rest
On flowers of soberer hue: sometimes with growth
So strong, luxuriantly strong, it shoots,
That scarcely o'er the golden forest peers
The wildered heifer's horns, or higher crest
Of proudly neighing steed. Doubt not that there
A native pith of soil, a native warmth
And kindliness resides; rely that there
Grain, pulse, or root, whate'er the crop, will yield
An early and exuberant increase.