ISTER, come to the chestnut toll,
SISTE come to the chest dear old bole,
Where we oft have sate in the snow and the rain, And perhaps I never shall sit again.
Longer and darker the shadows grow:
'Tis my last night, dear. With the dawn I go.
Oh the times, and times, we two have played
Alone, alone, in its nursing shade.
When once we the breadth of the park had crossed,
We fancied ourselves to be hid and lost
In a secret world that seemed to be
As vast as the forests I soon shall see.
Do you remember the winter days
When we piled up the leaves and made them blaze,
While the blue smoke curled in the frosty air,
Up the great wan trunks that rose gaunt and bare,
And we clapped our hands, and the rotten bough
Came crackling down to our feet, as now?
But dearer than all was the April weather,
When off we set to the woods together,
And piled up the lap of your clean white frock
With primrose, and bluebell, and ladysmock,
And notched the pith of the sycamore stem
Into whistles. Do you remember them?
And in summer you followed me fast and far-
How cruel and selfish brothers are!—
With tottering legs, and with cheeks aflame,
Till back to the chestnut toll we came,
And rested and watched the long tassels swing
That seemed with their scent to prolong the Spring.
And in Autumn 'twas still our favourite spot,
When school was over and tasks forgot,
And we scampered away and searched till dusk
For the smooth bright nuts in the prickly husk,
And carried them home, by the shepherd's star,
Then roasted them on the nursery bar.
O, Winnie, I do not want to go
From the dear old home; I love it so.
Why should I follow the sad sea-mew
To a land where everything is new,
Where we never bird-nested, you and I,
Where I was not born, but perhaps shall die?
No; I did not mean that. Come, dry your tears, You may want them all in the coming years. There's nothing to cry for, Win: be brave.
I will work like a horse, like a dog, like a slave, And will come back long ere we both are old, The clods of my clearing turned to gold.
But could I not stay and work at home,
Clear English woods, turn up English loam ?
I shall have to work with my hands out there,
Shear sheep, shoe horses, put edge on share,
Dress scab, drive bullocks, trim hedge, clean ditch,
Put in here a rivet and there a stitch.
It were sweeter to moil in the dear old land,
And sooth, why not? Have we grown so grand ?
So grand! When the rear becomes the van,
Rich idleness makes the gentleman.
Gentleman! What is a gentleman now?
A swordless hand and a helmless brow.
Would you blush for me, Win, if you saw me there
With my sleeves turned up and my sinews bare,
And the axe on the log come ringing down
Like a battering-ram on a high-walled town,
And my temples beaded with diamond sweat,
As bright as a wealth-earned coronet?
And, pray, if not there, why here? Does crime
Depend upon distance, or shame on clime?
Will your sleek-skinned plutocrats cease to scoff
At a workman's hands, if he works far off?
And is theirs the conscience men born to sway
Must accept for their own in this latter day?
I could be Harry's woodreeve.
To work for his House, and the eldest-born?
I know every trunk, and bough, and stick,
Much better than Glebe, and as well as Dick.
Loving service seems banned in a monied age,
Or a brother's trust might be all my wage.
Or his keeper, Win? Do you think I'd mind
Being out in all weathers, wet, frost, or wind?
Because I have got a finer coat,
Do I shrink from a weasel or dread a stoat?
Have I not nailed them by tens and scores
To the pheasant-hutch and the granary doors?
Don't I know where the partridge love to hatch,
And wouldn't the poachers meet their match?
A hearty word has a wondrous charm,
And, if not-well, there's always the stalwart arm.
Thank Heaven! spite pillows and counterpanes,
The blood of the savage still haunts my veins.
They may boast as they will of our moral days,
Our mincing manners and softer ways,
And our money value for everything,
But he who will fight should alone be king;
And when gentlemen go, unless I'm wrong,
Men, too, will grow scarce before very long.
There, enough! let us back. I'm a fool, I know; But I must see Gladys before I go.
Good bye, old toll. In my log-hut bleak,
I shall hear your leaves whisper, your branches creak, Your wood-quests brood, your wood-peckers call, And the shells of your ripened chestnuts fall.
Harry never must let the dear old place
To a stranger foot and a stranger's face.
He may live as our fathers lived before,
With a homely table and open door.
But out on the pomp the upstart hires,
And that drives a man from the roof of his sires!
I never can understand why they,
Who founded thrones in a braver day,
Should cope with the heroes of 'change and mart, Whose splendour puts rulers and ruled apart, Insults the lowly and saps the State,
Makes the servile cringe, and the manly hate.
You will write to me often, dear, when I'm gone,
And tell me how everything goes on;
If the trout spawn well, where the beagles meet,
Who is married or dies in the village street;
And mind you send me the likeliest pup
Of Fan's next litter. There, Win, cheer up!
KACELYEVO's slope still felt
The cannon's bolt and the rifles' pelt;
For a last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.
Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;
His lips were clenched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.
"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried,
Then the name of "Allah!" echoed wide,
And the rifles were clutched and the bayonets lowered, And on to the last redoubt they poured.
One fell, and a second quickly stopped
The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped; The second, a third straight filled his place;
The third, and a fourth kept up the race.
Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's throne and a houri's breast.
Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.
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