DARTSIDE

I cannot tell what you say, green leaves,
   I cannot tell what you say: 
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
   And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
   I cannot tell what you say: 
But I know that there is a spirit in you,
   And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
   I cannot tell what you say: 
But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,
   And a word doth speak this day.

’Oh green is the colour of faith and truth,
And rose the colour of love and youth,
   And brown of the fruitful clay. 
   Sweet Earth is faithful, and fruitful, and young,
   And her bridal day shall come ere long,
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams
      And the whispering woodlands say.’

Drew’s Teignton, Dartmoor,
July 31, 1849.

MY HUNTING SONG

      Forward!  Hark forward’s the cry! 
One more fence and we’re out on the open,
So to us at once, if you want to live near us! 
Hark to them, ride to them, beauties! as on they go,
Leaping and sweeping away in the vale below! 
Cowards and bunglers, whose heart or whose eye is slow,
   Find themselves staring alone.

      So the great cause flashes by;
Nearer and clearer its purposes open,
While louder and prouder the world-echoes cheer us: 
Gentlemen sportsmen, you ought to live up to us,
Lead us, and lift us, and hallo our game to us—­
We cannot call the hounds off, and no shame to us—­
   Don’t be left staring alone!

Eversley, 1849.

ALTON LOCKE’S SONG

Weep, weep, weep and weep,
   For pauper, dolt, and slave! 
Hark! from wasted moor and fen,
Feverous alley, stifling den,
Swells the wail of Saxon men—­
   Work! or the grave!

Down, down, down and down,
   With idler, knave, and tyrant! 
Why for sluggards cark and moil? 
He that will not live by toil
Has no right on English soil! 
   God’s word’s our warrant!

Up, up, up and up! 
   Face your game and play it! 
The night is past, behold the sun! 
The idols fall, the lie is done! 
The Judge is set, the doom begun! 
   Who shall stay it?

On Torridge, May 1849.

THE DAY OF THE LORD

The Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand: 
   Its storms roll up the sky: 
The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold;
   All dreamers toss and sigh;
The night is darkest before the morn;
When the pain is sorest the child is born,
      And the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, angels of God—­
   Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth;
Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old,
   Come down, and renew us her youth. 
Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
      To the Day of the Lord at hand.