Go, for
they call you, shepherd, from the hill;
Go,
shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes!
No
longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let
thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the
cropp'd herbage shoot another head.
But
when the fields are still,
And the
tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
And
only the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross
and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green,
Come,
shepherd, and again begin the quest!
Here,
where the reaper was at work of late—
In this
high field's dark corner, where he leaves
His
coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse,
And in
the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
Then
here, at noon, comes back his stores to use—
Here
will I sit and wait,
While
to my ear from uplands far away
The
bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
With
distant cries of reapers in the corn—
All the
live murmur of a summer's day.
Screen'd
is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field,
And
here till sun-down, shepherd! will I be.
Through
the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
And
round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
Pale
pink convolvulus in tendrils creep;
And
air-swept lindens yield
Their
scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of
bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And
bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the
eye travels down to Oxford's towers.
And
near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book—
Come,
let me read the oft-read tale again!
The
story of the Oxford scholar poor,
Of
pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
Who,
tired of knocking at preferment's door,
One
summer-morn forsook
His
friends, and went to learn the gipsy-lore,
And
roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood,
And
came, as most men deem'd, to little good,
But
came to Oxford and his friends no more.
But
once, years after, in the country-lanes,
Two
scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
Met
him, and of his way of life enquired;
Whereat
he answer'd, that the gipsy-crew,
His
mates, had arts to rule as they desired
The
workings of men's brains,
And
they can bind them to what thoughts they will.
"And
I," he said, "the secret of their art,
When
fully learn'd, will to the world impart;
But it
needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."
This
said, he left them, and return'd no more.—
But
rumours hung about the country-side,
That
the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
Seen by
rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
In hat
of antique shape, and cloak of grey,
The
same the gipsies wore.
Shepherds
had met him on the Hurst in spring;
At some
lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the
warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors
Had
found him seated at their entering,
But,
'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly.
And I
myself seem half to know thy looks,
And put
the shepherds, wanderer! on thy trace;
And
boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks
I ask
if thou hast pass'd their quiet place;
Or in
my boat I lie
Moor'd
to the cool bank in the summer-heats,
'Mid
wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills,
And
watch the warm, green-muffled Cumner hills,
And
wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.
For
most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground!
Thee at
the ferry Oxford riders blithe,
Returning
home on summer-nights, have met
Crossing
the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe,
Trailing
in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
As the
punt's rope chops round;
And
leaning backward in a pensive dream,
And
fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers
Pluck'd
in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers,
And
thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream.
And
then they land, and thou art seen no more!—
Maidens,
who from the distant hamlets come
To
dance around the Fyfield elm in May,
Oft
through the darkening fields have seen thee roam,
Or
cross a stile into the public way.
Oft
thou hast given them store
Of
flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemony,
Dark
bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves,
And
purple orchises with spotted leaves—
But
none hath words she can report of thee.
And,
above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here
In
June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames,
Men who
through those wide fields of breezy grass
Where
black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames,
To
bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass,
Have
often pass'd thee near
Sitting
upon the river bank o'ergrown;
Mark'd
thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare,
Thy
dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air—
But,
when they came from bathing, thou wast gone!
At some
lone homestead in the Cumner hills,
Where
at her open door the housewife darns,
Thou
hast been seen, or hanging on a gate
To
watch the threshers in the mossy barns.
Children,
who early range these slopes and late
For
cresses from the rills,
Have
known thee eyeing, all an April-day,
The
springing pasture and the feeding kine;
And
mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine,
Through
the long dewy grass move slow away.
In
autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood—
Where
most the gipsies by the turf-edged way
Pitch
their smoked tents, and every bush you see
With
scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey,
Above
the forest-ground called Thessaly—
The
blackbird, picking food,
Sees
thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all;
So
often has he known thee past him stray,
Rapt,
twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray,
And
waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.
And
once, in winter, on the causeway chill
Where
home through flooded fields foot-travellers go,
Have I
not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge,
Wrapt
in thy cloak and battling with the snow,
Thy
face tow'rd Hinksey and its wintry ridge?
And
thou has climb'd the hill,
And
gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range;
Turn'd
once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall,
The
line of festal light in Christ-Church hall—
Then
sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.
But
what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown
Since
first thy story ran through Oxford halls,
And the
grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe
That
thou wert wander'd from the studious walls
To
learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
And
thou from earth art gone
Long
since, and in some quiet churchyard laid—
Some
country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave
Tall
grasses and white flowering nettles wave,
Under a
dark, red-fruited yew-tree's shade.
—No,
no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours!
For
what wears out the life of mortal men?
'Tis
that from change to change their being rolls;
'Tis
that repeated shocks, again, again,
Exhaust
the energy of strongest souls
And
numb the elastic powers.
Till
having used our nerves with bliss and teen,
And
tired upon a thousand schemes our wit,
To the
just-pausing Genius we remit
Our
worn-out life, and are—what we have been.
Thou
hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so?
Thou
hadst one aim, one business, one desire;
Else
wert thou long since number'd with the dead!
Else
hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire!
The
generations of thy peers are fled,
And we
ourselves shall go;
But
thou possessest an immortal lot,
And we
imagine thee exempt from age
And
living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page,
Because
thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.
For
early didst thou leave the world, with powers
Fresh,
undiverted to the world without,
Firm to
their mark, not spent on other things;
Free
from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt,
Which
much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings.
O life
unlike to ours!
Who
fluctuate idly without term or scope,
Of whom
each strives, nor knows for what he strives,
And
each half lives a hundred different lives;
Who
wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.
Thou
waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Light
half-believers of our casual creeds,
Who
never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd,
Whose
insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
Whose
vague resolves never have been fulfill'd;
For
whom each year we see
Breeds
new beginnings, disappointments new;
Who
hesitate and falter life away,
And
lose to-morrow the ground won to-day—
Ah! do
not we, wanderer! await it too?
Yes, we
await it!—but it still delays,
And
then we suffer! and amongst us one,
Who
most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly
His
seat upon the intellectual throne;
And all
his store of sad experience he
Lays
bare of wretched days;
Tells
us his misery's birth and growth and signs,
And how
the dying spark of hope was fed,
And how
the breast was soothed, and how the head,
And all
his hourly varied anodynes.
This
for our wisest! and we others pine,
And
wish the long unhappy dream would end,
And
waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear;
With
close-lipp'd patience for our only friend,
Sad
patience, too near neighbour to despair—
But
none has hope like thine!
Thou
through the fields and through the woods dost stray,
Roaming
the country-side, a truant boy,
Nursing
thy project in unclouded joy,
And
every doubt long blown by time away.
O born
in days when wits were fresh and clear,
And
life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames;
Before
this strange disease of modern life,
With
its sick hurry, its divided aims,
Its
heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife—
Fly
hence, our contact fear!
Still
fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood!
Averse,
as Dido did with gesture stern
From
her false friend's approach in Hades turn,
Wave us
away, and keep thy solitude!
Still
nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still
clutching the inviolable shade,
With a
free, onward impulse brushing through,
By
night, the silver'd branches of the glade—
Far on
the forest-skirts, where none pursue,
On some
mild pastoral slope
Emerge,
and resting on the moonlit pales
Freshen
thy flowers as in former years
With
dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
From
the dark tingles, to the nightingales!
But fly
our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For
strong the infection of our mental strife,
Which,
though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
And we
should win thee from thy own fair life,
Like us
distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon,
soon thy cheer would die,
Thy
hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers,
And thy
clear aims be cross and shifting made;
And
then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
Fade
and grow old at last, and die like ours.
Then
fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles!
—As
some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,
Descried
at sunrise an emerging prow
Lifting
the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily,
The
fringes of a southward-facing brow
Among
the Ægæan Isles;
And saw
the merry Grecian coaster come,
Freighted
with amber grapes, and Chian wine,
Green,
bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine—
And
knew the intruders on his ancient home,
The
young light-hearted masters of the waves—
And
snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail;
And day
and night held on indignantly
O'er
the blue Midland waters with the gale,
Betwixt
the Syrtes and soft Sicily,
To
where the Atlantic raves
Outside
the western straits; and unbent sails
There,
where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,
Shy
traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
And on
the beach undid his corded bales.
2. “The Scholar Gipsy” is a critique of Victorian life. Discuss. June, 2019
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