WHEN Aurora's blushing ray
Jocund leads the morn of May,
And the pilfering zephyr blows
Odour from the new-born rose;
Or when evening's sky serene
Blazes o'er the woodland scene,
And the crimson-mantled sun
Speaks his daily labour done;
When the village hum is mute,
When in vain the Shepherd's flute
Strives the soft tone to excel
Of the lonely Philomel;
When amongst yon aged trees,
Wandering sighs the languid breeze,
And the owlet, bird of night,
Flitting round the turret's height,
Sad to Superstition's ear,
Shrieks her evening song of fear;
Or when Cynthia pours her beam
Playful on the pebbled stream,
And the deep wood's whispering glade,
Courts us to the scented shade;
Then, from every sorrow free
STELLA let me range with thee.
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in its sound.--
THE Muses are turned gossips; they have lost
The buskined step, and clear high-sounding phrase,
Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse,
In slip-shod measure loosely prattling on
Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream,
Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire
By little whimpering boy, with rueful face;
Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-day.
Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend,
With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day
Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on
Too soon; for to that day nor peace belongs
Nor comfort; ere the first grey streak of dawn,
The red-arm'd washers come and chase repose.
Nor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth,
E'er visited that day; the very cat,
From the wet kitchen scared, and reeking hearth,
Visits the parlour, an unwonted guest.
The silent breakfast-meal is soon dispatched
Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks
Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lour.
From that last evil, oh! preserve us, heavens!
For should the skies pour down, adieu to all
Remains of quiet; then expect to hear
Of sad disasters-dirt and gravel stains
Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once
Snapped short-and linen-horse by dog thrown down,
And all the petty miseries of life.
Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack,
And Montezuma smiled on burning coals;
But never yet did housewife notable
Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day.
But grant the welkin fair, require not thou
Who callest thyself perchance the master there,
Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat,
Or usual 'tendance; ask not, indiscreet,
Thy stockings mended, tho' the yawning rents
Gape wide as Erebus, nor hope to find
Some snug recess impervious; should'st thou try
The customed garden walks, thine eye shall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight
Of coarse checked apron, with impatient hand
Twitched off when showers impend: or crossing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites.
Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy,
Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, savory pie,
Or tart or pudding:-pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat; nor, tho' the husband try,
Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.
I well remember, when a child, the awe This day struck into me; for then the maids, I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from them; Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope Usual indulgencies; jelly or creams, Relique of costly suppers, and set by For me their petted one; or buttered toast, When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale Of ghost, or witch, or murder-so I went And sheltered me beside the parlour fire; There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, Tended the little ones, and watched from harm, Anxiously fond, tho' oft her spectacles With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravelled stocking, might have sour'd One less indulgent.
At intervals my mother's voice was heard,
Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.
Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bole
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft
The floating bubbles, little dreaming then
To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball
Ride buoyant through the clouds-so near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them-this most of all.
LET courtly bards, in polished phrase, indite
Soft madrigals to celebrate the fair;
Or paint the splendour of a birth-day night,
Where peers and dames in shining robes appear:
The task be mine neglected worth to praise,
Alas! too often found, in these degenerate days!
O gentle Shenstone! could the self-taught Muse,
Who joys, like thine, in rural shades to stray,
Could she, like thine, while she her theme pursues,
With native beauties deck the pleasing lay;
Then should the humble clerk of Barton-Dean
An equal meed of praise with thy school-mistress gain.
Entering the village, in a deep-worn way,
Hard by an aged oak, his dwelling stands;
The lowly roof is thatch, the walls are clay,
All rudely raised by his forefathers' hands;
Observe the homely hut as you pass by,
And pity the good man that lives so wretchedly!
First published in the year 1758.
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