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George Meredith - Pastorals
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I 

How sweet on sunny afternoons, 
For those who journey light and well, 
To loiter up a hilly rise 
Which hides the prospect far beyond, 
And fancy all the landscape lying 
Beautiful and still; 

Beneath a sky of summer blue, 
Whose rounded cloudlets, folded soft, 
Gaze on the scene which we await 
And picture from their peacefulness; 
So calmly to the earth inclining 
Float those loving shapes! 

Like airy brides, each singling out 
A spot to love and bless with love, 
Their creamy bosoms glowing warm, 
Till distance weds them to the hills, 
And with its latest gleam the river 
Sinks in their embrace. 

And silverly the river runs, 
And many a graceful wind he makes, 
By fields where feed the happy flocks, 
And hedge-rows hushing pleasant lanes, 
The charms of English home reflected 
In his shining eye: 

Ancestral oak, broad-foliaged elm, 
Rich meadows sunned and starred with flowers, 
The cottage breathing tender smoke 
Against the brooding golden air, 
With glimpses of a stately mansion 
On a woodland sward; 

And circling round, as with a ring, 
The distance spreading amber haze, 
Enclosing hills and pastures sweet; 
A depth of soft and mellow light 
Which fills the heart with sudden yearning 
Aimless and serene! 

No disenchantment follows here, 
For nature`s inspiration moves 
The dream which she herself fulfils; 
And he whose heart, like valley warmth, 
Steams up with joy at scenes like this 
Shall never be forlorn. 

And O for any human soul 
The rapture of a wide survey - 
A valley sweeping to the West, 
With all its wealth of loveliness, 
Is more than recompense for days 
That taught us to endure. 


II 

Yon upland slope which hides the sun 
Ascending from his eastern deeps, 
And now against the hues of dawn 
One level line of tillage rears; 
The furrowed brow of toil and time; 
To many it is but a sweep of land! 

To others `tis an Autumn trust, 
But unto me a mystery; - 
An influence strange and swift as dreams; 
A whispering of old romance; 
A temple naked to the clouds; 
Or one of nature`s bosoms fresh revealed, 

Heaving with adoration! there 
The work of husbandry is done, 
And daily bread is daily earned; 
Nor seems there ought to indicate 
The springs which move in me such thoughts, 
But from my soul a spirit calls them up. 

All day into the open sky, 
All night to the eternal stars, 
For ever both at morn and eve 
Men mellow distances draw near, 
And shadows lengthen in the dusk, 
Athwart the heavens it rolls its glimmering line! 

When twilight from the dream-hued West 
Sighs hush! and all the land is still; 
When, from the lush empurpling East, 
The twilight of the crowing cock 
Peers on the drowsy village roofs, 
Athwart the heavens that glimmering line is seen. 

And now beneath the rising sun, 
Whose shining chariot overpeers 
The irradiate ridge, while fetlock deep 
In the rich soil his coursers plunge - 
How grand in robes of light it looks! 
How glorious with rare suggestive grace! 

The ploughman mounting up the height 
Becomes a glowing shape, as though 
`Twere young Triptolemus, plough in hand, 
While Ceres in her amber scarf 
With gentle love directs him how 
To wed the willing earth and hope for fruits! 

The furrows running up are fraught 
With meanings; there the goddess walks, 
While Proserpine is young, and there - 
`Mid the late autumn sheaves, her voice 
Sobbing and choked with dumb despair - 
The nights will hear her wailing for her child! 

Whatever dim tradition tells, 
Whatever history may reveal, 
Or fancy, from her starry brows, 
Of light or dreamful lustre shed, 
Could not at this sweet time increase 
The quiet consecration of the spot. 

Blest with the sweat of labour, blest 
With the young sun`s first vigorous beams, 
Village hope and harvest prayer, - 
The heart that throbs beneath it holds 
A bliss so perfect in itself 
Men`s thoughts must borrow rather than bestow. 


III 

Now standing on this hedgeside path, 
Up which the evening winds are blowing 
Wildly from the lingering lines 
Of sunset o`er the hills; 
Unaided by one motive thought, 
My spirit with a strange impulsion 
Rises, like a fledgling, 
Whose wings are not mature, but still 
Supported by its strong desire 
Beats up its native air and leaves 
The tender mother`s nest. 

Great music under heaven is made, 
And in the track of rushing darkness 
Comes the solemn shape of night, 
And broods above the earth. 
A thing of Nature am I now, 
Abroad, without a sense or feeling 
Born not of her bosom; 
Content with all her truths and fates; 
Ev`n as yon strip of grass that bows 
Above the new-born violet bloom, 
And sings with wood and field. 


IV 

Lo, as a tree, whose wintry twigs 
Drink in the sun with fibrous joy, 
And down into its dampest roots 
Thrills quickened with the draught of life, 
I wake unto the dawn, and leave my griefs to drowse. 

I rise and drink the fresh sweet air: 
Each draught a future bud of Spring; 
Each glance of blue a birth of green; 
I will not mimic yonder oak 
That dallies with dead leaves ev`n while the primrose peeps. 

But full of these warm-whispering beams, 
Like Memnon in his mother`s eye, - 
Aurora! when the statue stone 
Moaned soft to her pathetic touch, - 
My soul shall own its parent in the founts of day! 

And ever in the recurring light, 
True to the primal joy of dawn, 
Forget its barren griefs; and aye 
Like aspens in the faintest breeze 
Turn all its silver sides and tremble into song. 


V 

Now from the meadow floods the wild duck clamours, 
Now the wood pigeon wings a rapid flight, 
Now the homeward rookery follows up its vanguard, 
And the valley mists are curling up the hills. 

Three short songs gives the clear-voiced throstle, 
Sweetening the twilight ere he fills the nest; 
While the little bird upon the leafless branches 
Tweets to its mate a tiny loving note. 

Deeper the stillness hangs on every motion; 
Calmer the silence follows every call; 
Now all is quiet save the roosting pheasant, 
The bell-wether`s tinkle and the watch-dog`s bark. 

Softly shine the lights from the silent kindling homestead, 
Stars of the hearth to the shepherd in the fold; 
Springs of desire to the traveller on the roadway; 
Ever breathing incense to the ever-blessing sky! 


VI 

How barren would this valley be, 
Without the golden orb that gazes 
On it, broadening to hues 
Of rose, and spreading wings of amber; 
Blessing it before it falls asleep. 

How barren would this valley be, 
Without the human lives now beating 
In it, or the throbbing hearts 
Far distant, who their flower of childhood 
Cherish here, and water it with tears! 

How barren should I be, were I 
Without above that loving splendour, 
Shedding light and warmth! without 
Some kindred natures of my kind 
To joy in me, or yearn towards me now! 


VII 

Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies 
Darken `mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses 
Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay-makers 
Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing, 
And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming 
Wears its cool star, sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now; 
Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage, 
Drooping with languor; the white cloud floats, but sails not, for windless 
Heaven`s blue tents it; no lark singing up in its fleecy white valleys; 
Up in its fairy white valleys, once feathered with minstrels, melodious 
With the invisible joy that wakes dawn o`er the green fields of England. 
Summer glows warm on the meadows; then come, let us roam thro` them gaily, 
Heedless of heat, and the hot-kissing sun, and the fear of dark freckles. 
Never one kiss will he give on a neck, or a lily-white forehead, 
Chin, hand, or bosom uncovered, all panting, to take the chance coolness, 
But full sure the fiery pressure leaves seal of espousal. 
Heed him not; come, tho` he kiss till the soft little upper-lip loses 
Half its pure whiteness; just speck`d where the curve of the rosy mouth reddens. 

Come, let him kiss, let him kiss, and his kisses shall make thee the sweeter. 
Thou art no nun, veiled and vowed; doomed to nourish a withering pallor! 
City exotics beside thee would show like bleached linen at mid-day, 
Hung upon hedges of eglantine! Thou in the freedom of nature, 
Full of her beauty and wisdom, gentleness, joyance, and kindness! 
Come, and like bees will we gather the rich golden honey of noontide; 
Deep in the sweet summer meadows, border`d by hillside and river, 
Lined with long trenches half-hidden, where smell of white meadow-sweet, sweetest, 
Blissfully hovers—O sweetest! but pluck it not! even in the tenderest 
Grasp it will lose breath and wither; like many, not made for a posy. 

See, the sun slopes down the meadows, where all the flowers are falling! 
Falling unhymned; for the nightingale scarce ever charms the long twilight: 
Mute with the cares of the nest; only known by a `chuck, chuck,` and dovelike 
Call of content, but the finch and the linnet and blackcap pipe loudly. 
Round on the western hill-side warbles the rich-billed ouzel; 
And the shrill throstle is filling the tangled thickening copses; 
Singing o`er hyacinths hid, and most honey`d of flowers, white field-rose. 
Joy thus to revel all day in the grass of our own beloved country; 
Revel all day, till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet `tirra-lirra`: 
Trilling delightfully. See, on the river the slow-rippled surface 
Shining; the slow ripple broadens in circles; the bright surface smoothens; 
Now it is flat as the leaves of the yet unseen water-lily. 
There dart the lives of a day, ever-varying tactics fantastic. 
There, by the wet-mirrored osiers, the emerald wing of the kingfisher 
Flashes, the fish in his beak! there the dab-chick dived, and the motion 
Lazily undulates all thro` the tall standing army of rushes. 

Joy thus to revel all day, till the twilight turns us homeward! 
Till all the lingering deep-blooming splendour of sunset is over, 
And the one star shines mildly in mellowing hues, like a spirit 
Sent to assure us that light never dieth, tho` day is now buried. 
Saying: to-morrow, to-morrow, few hours intervening, that interval 
Tuned by the woodlark in heaven, to-morrow my semblance, far eastward, 
Heralds the day `tis my mission eternal to seal and to prophecy. 
Come then, and homeward; passing down the close path of the meadows. 
Home like the bees stored with sweetness; each with a lark in the bosom, 
Trilling for ever, and oh! will yon lark ever cease to sing up there?
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