[Footnote 1: The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L’Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: One in particular, as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be policy and humanity to employ means of destruction, could they be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies, but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon the victims of our war systems, is cruel and wicked.]
ECLOGUE V.
THE WITCH.
NATHANIEL.
Father! here father! I have found a horse-shoe! Faith it was just in time, for t’other night I laid two straws across at Margery’s door, And afterwards I fear’d that she might do me A mischief for’t. There was the Miller’s boy Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, I met him upon crutches, and he told me ‘Twas all her evil eye.
FATHER.
‘Tis rare good luck;
I would have gladly given a crown for one If t’would have done as well. But where did’st find it?
NATHANIEL.
Down on the Common; I was going a-field And neighbour Saunders pass’d me on his mare; He had hardly said “good day,” before I saw The shoe drop off; ’twas just upon my tongue To call him back,–it makes no difference, does it. Because I know whose ’twas?
FATHER.
Why no, it can’t.
The shoe’s the same you know, and you ‘did find’ it.
NATHANIEL.
That mare of his has got a plaguey road To travel, father, and if he should lame her, For she is but tender-footed,–
FATHER.
Aye, indeed–
I should not like to see her limping back Poor beast! but charity begins at home, And Nat, there’s our own horse in such a way This morning!
NATHANIEL.
Why he ha’nt been rid again! Last night I hung a pebble by the manger With a hole thro’, and every body says That ’tis a special charm against the hags.
FATHER.
It could not be a proper natural hole then, Or ’twas not a right pebble,–for I found him Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, And panting so! God knows where he had been When we were all asleep, thro’ bush and brake Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch At such a deadly rate!–
NATHANIEL.
By land and water,
Over the sea perhaps!–I have heard tell That ’tis some thousand miles, almost at the end Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear Some ointment over them and then away Out of the window! but ’tis worse than all To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it That in a Christian country they should let Such creatures live!
FATHER.
And when there’s such plain proof! I did but threaten her because she robb’d Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind That made me shake to hear it in my bed! How came it that that storm unroofed my barn, And only mine in the parish? look at her And that’s enough; she has it in her face– A pair of large dead eyes, rank in her head, Just like a corpse, and purs’d with wrinkles round, A nose and chin that scarce leave room between For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff, And when she speaks! I’d sooner hear a raven Croak at my door! she sits there, nose and knees Smoak-dried and shrivell’d over a starved fire, With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes Shine like old Beelzebub’s, and to be sure It must be one of his imps!–aye, nail it hard.
NATHANIEL.
I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! She’d curse the music.
FATHER.
Here’s the Curate coming, He ought to rid the parish of such vermin; In the old times they used to hunt them out And hang them without mercy, but Lord bless us! The world is grown so wicked!
CURATE.
Good day Farmer!
Nathaniel what art nailing to the threshold?
NATHANIEL.
A horse-shoe Sir, ’tis good to keep off witchcraft, And we’re afraid of Margery.
CURATE.
Poor old woman!
What can you fear from her?
FATHER.
What can we fear?
Who lamed the Miller’s boy? who rais’d the wind That blew my old barn’s roof down? who d’ye think Rides my poor horse a’nights? who mocks the hounds? But let me catch her at that trick again, And I’ve a silver bullet ready for her, One that shall lame her, double how she will.
NATHANIEL.
What makes her sit there moping by herself, With no soul near her but that great black cat? And do but look at her!
CURATE.
Poor wretch! half blind
And crooked with her years, without a child Or friend in her old age, ’tis hard indeed To have her very miseries made her crimes! I met her but last week in that hard frost That made my young limbs ache, and when I ask’d What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad And pick the hedges, just to keep herself From perishing with cold, because no neighbour Had pity on her age; and then she cried, And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, And wish’d that she were dead.
FATHER.
I wish she was!
She has plagued the parish long enough!
CURATE.
Shame farmer!
Is that the charity your bible teaches?
FATHER.
My bible does not teach me to love witches. I know what’s charity; who pays his tithes And poor-rates readier?
CURATE.
Who can better do it?
You’ve been a prudent and industrious man, And God has blest your labour.
FATHER.
Why, thank God Sir,
I’ve had no reason to complain of fortune.
CURATE.
Complain! why you are wealthy. All the parish Look up to you.
FATHER.
Perhaps Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
CURATE.
You can afford a little to the poor, And then what’s better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance.
FATHER.
God forbid
I should want charity!
CURATE.
Oh! ’tis a comfort
To think at last of riches well employ’d! I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth Of a good deed at that most awful hour When riches profit not.
Farmer, I’m going To visit Margery. She is sick I hear– Old, poor, and sick! a miserable lot, And death will be a blessing. You might send her Some little matter, something comfortable, That she may go down easier to the grave And bless you when she dies.
FATHER.
What! is she going!
Well God forgive her then! if she has dealt In the black art. I’ll tell my dame of it, And she shall send her something.
CURATE.
So I’ll say;
And take my thanks for her’s. [‘goes’]
FATHER.
That’s a good man
That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit The poor in sickness; but he don’t believe In witchcraft, and that is not like a christian.
NATHANIEL.
And so old Margery’s dying!
FATHER.
But you know
She may recover; so drive t’other nail in!
ECLOGUE VI.
THE RUINED COTTAGE.
Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye, This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch, Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock That thro’ the creeping weeds and nettles tall Peers taller, and uplifts its column’d stem Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen Many a fallen convent reverend in decay, And many a time have trod the castle courts And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof Part mouldered in, the rest o’ergrown with weeds, House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss; So Nature wars with all the works of man. And, like himself, reduces back to earth His perishable piles.
I led thee here
Charles, not without design; for this hath been My favourite walk even since I was a boy; And I remember Charles, this ruin here, The neatest comfortable dwelling place! That when I read in those dear books that first Woke in my heart the love of poesy,
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, And Calidore for a fair shepherdess
Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd’s lore; My fancy drew from, this the little hut Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, Or where the gentle Calidore at eve
Led Pastorella home. There was not then A weed where all these nettles overtop
The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet The morning air, rosemary and marjoram, All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath’d So lavishly around the pillared porch
Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way, After a truant absence hastening home,
I could not chuse but pass with slacken’d speed By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!– Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,
There’s scarce a village but can fellow it, And yet methinks it will not weary thee, And should not be untold.
A widow woman
Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want, She lived on some small pittance that sufficed, In better times, the needful calls of life, Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at evening in that open door way And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her Raising her eyes and dark-rimm’d spectacles To see the passer by, yet ceasing not
To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden On some dry summer evening, walking round To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean’d Upon the ivory handle of her stick,
To some carnation whose o’erheavy head Needed support, while with the watering-pot Joanna followed, and refresh’d and trimm’d The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child, As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.
Charles! it seems
As tho’ I were a boy again, and all The mediate years with their vicissitudes A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid
So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair, Her bright brown hair, wreath’d in contracting curls, And then her cheek! it was a red and white That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome, The countrymen who on their way to church Were leaning o’er the bridge, loitering to hear The bell’s last summons, and in idleness Watching the stream below, would all look up When she pass’d by. And her old Mother, Charles! When I have beard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness. Her figure has recurr’d; for she did love The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross’d These fields in rain and thro’ the winter snows. When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself By the fire-side, have wondered why ‘she’ came Who might have sate at home.
One only care
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, Her path was plain before her, and the close Of her long journey near. But then her child Soon to be left alone in this bad world,– That was a thought that many a winter night Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love In something better than a servant’s slate Had placed her well at last, it was a pang Like parting life to part with her dear girl.
One summer, Charles, when at the holydays Return’d from school, I visited again
My old accustomed walks, and found in them. A joy almost like meeting an old friend, I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Already crowding the neglected flowers. Joanna by a villain’s wiles seduced
Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach’d Her mother’s heart. She did not suffer long, Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow
Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.
I pass this ruin’d dwelling oftentimes And think of other days. It wakes in me A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles That ever with these recollections rise, I trust in God they will not pass away.
THE END.