"Ho! truant idler! doomed to be undone,
Thy mother asks thee, and bewails her son."
But the caught youth the witching fiddle eyed,
And nearer drew him to the gipsy's side.
The fiddle ceased, and Roger's spirit fell ;
More had it struck, his mind was to rebel;
Had not the gipsy cautiously retired,
Awed by the light the Senior's anger fired.
The son and sire stood steadfast arm to arm,
The one with dancing, one with anger warm.
The sturdy parent, with relentless hand,
Collared the lout, a bailiff-like command,
No sooner touched than instantly obeyed,
As the King's fiat had the seizure made.
Sullen and slow the twain returned to home,
Forward stept one, whose ears did backward roam,
Roam to the covert and the gipsies' cot,
Bound by the music absent, not forgot:
The mind will wander to past scenes enjoyed,
As Judah weeping o'er her fane destroyed;
The bygone dreams the present overcast,
Though sighs be memory's music of the past.
Sad sat the mother, silent as the mouse,
That deep considers hath a cat the house.
Now for the son her inward heart was torn.
The cows were meek, and bloodless of the horn!
Where had he strayed? What mischief overta'en-
What water drowned him—or, what peril slain ?
The ways he knew,-the secret winding wood,
The days of danger, and the time of flood!
Then where withholden? or by what affair?
Her best conclusions only came to-" where ?"
Fear fled; red anger kindled to a glow;
Then anger drowned him in a tearful flow.
Warmed from the heart, yet chilly looked the tears,
As the iced fire in shining glass appears.
What hope forego, what prospect to uphold,
Till speech found virtue in " I'll scold! I'll scold!"
Her mind revolved, as with a tinkling sound
The ventilating pane went round and round.
God gave us mothers-I have one to own!
She knew my wants ere I could make them known;
She felt for me ere I could say I feel,
She taught my infant knees at prayer to kneel;
I owe her much, and if I did her wrong,
May God forgive me, and deny me song.
No sooner echo brought the footsteps near,
Music well known to her accustomed ear,
No sooner had the door, e'er either knocked,
Received the shadows, 'twas unbarred, unlocked;
The wife, the mother, with extended arms,
Hugged her two treasures, and forgot alarms.
The frown prepared expressed a ready joy,
A mother's kiss reproved the truant boy,
While Roger shrinking, to his meal betook,
Fagged in his body, thoughtful in his look.
Of why, to wherefore, and for what delay ?
The silent boy had no excuse to say.
Shame, and self-will, or inward glowing joy,
For the past scene made questioning annoy.
Silence his safeguard, silence made him strong
As coated armour, 'gainst the shafts of wrong.
But much the father to the matron spoke
Of that adventure, ere the morn awoke-
Praying the Lord, at many an interval,
An idle son might not his age befall.
As on sharp faculties a sudden fear,
While working mischief, hath attuned the ear,
Till the grand organ feels the beaten drum,
Stopp'd to one music, but to others dumb;
So Roger's mind, still tortured and awake,
Discord discover'd for sweet music's sake,
As links half chain'd, perplexities increase,
His sought-for harmony denied him peace.
His quickened pulse a mighty madness feels,
A trembling palsy had possess'd his heels,
His step now totters, now half upward rears,
And aye the fiddle tingled in his ears.
So when the muse, in the impassioned play,
Flooded Abdera with Andromeda,
The waking peasant, red with sleepless eyes,
Asked of his love, Andromeda replies,-
The busy merchant, ere his nightly sleep,
Forgot his gains with Perseus' wife to weep.
Fictitious wo man's real to believe,
The actor taught, so skilful to deceive,
Andromeda produced the doctor's pay,
The nation's fever was-Andromeda.
The father saw the cows were lean and spare,
The starving teat produced the watery fare;
The feeder, leaner than the cows, as one
Vile spirit, moped his cattle and his son.
The watchful father, with enquiring eye,
Follow'd, unseen, in mental scrutiny,-
What could offend the cattle, what the child,
What food unhealthy, or what temper spoil'd?
One day beheld them in the covert space,
The next day found them in the self-same place.
The cows drawn up to that peculiar spot,
Where shade was grateful, but the grass was not.
That spot so darling to his darling son,
For music cherished, but for cows undone;
Still daily here his magnet fancy veer'd
To touch the point where happiness appeared.
So love-sick girls, whose soldiers, at the war,
Knee-deep in blood are gaining fields afar,
Oft downcast, musing, seek the silent grove,
That first was conscious of their plighted love,
There vows recalled, and promises to pay,
Drawn on the heart of one so far away,
Oaths, smiles, and tears revive the bygone scene,
Love keeps the spot when summer leaves it, green.
"Why wander here?" the hoary father said-
Anger, not age, beshook the offended head-
"Why here? why ever where the barren ground
With grass uncarpeted the hoofs rebound?
Are there no plains-no moistened banks of green?
Is the world dotted to this border'd scene?
Why, Roger, why these starving hides, and why
Thy laboured day return thine infamy?"
"Reprove not, father! if the printed hoof
Hath marked the cattle's hunger. Spare reproof.
This sheltered spot, my fancy and my home,
I care not hence, here lingering love to roam.
'Tis haunted, father, by enticing sound
In trees, in flowers, in rocks that ring around.
Here merry music first begot my sense,
All former joys were joy's impertinence.
Nought is substantial but the mirth I miss ;
Would the cows substance, then, restore my bliss?
Find me the tones once merry o'er the plat,
I shall be happy, and your cows be fat."
"O son! I've mourned thee since the luckless hour
The wizard people spelled thy native power,
Turned active limbs to infantine and weak,
Cropt the fresh rose, and left the sallow cheek.
Why mourn to follow the despised and bad?
The bird, snare broken, sings for freedom glad.
My son, become not of the idle men,
To prowl for food, to rest you know not when ;
O'er hill, down dale, in summer sun or snow,
Marked on the brow the Cain-like wanderers go.
'Tis true they fiddle, but, accursed lot,
The soul lacks music, so it cheers them not."
"Father, I've read within the holy page,
How heavenly songs angelic hosts engage.
Were it but mine to draw such strain to earth,
I'd die contented as my heaven had birth."
"Boy, it will lead thee to the house for ale,
Where jests and air, and men and maids are stale.
'Twill damn thine innocence, and thou be taught
Te feel the mischief of thy knowledge sought.
Mothers will curse, and children will bemoan
A father like, and yet not like their own,
As beer bewilders, or as shame returns,
As now he kisses what he drunken spurns.
These, Roger, these, with imprecating rage,
Shall say thy fiddle lost the weekly wage,
Put madness in the heels, and made athirst
A throat for blasphemy and noise accurst.
Heavy thine arm will raise the tuneful bow,
That drew its profit by another's wo."
"Profit, my father! Shall the heavenly strains,
For lucre vile be sacrificed to gains?
No, father, no, such money would I spurn;
Mirth be mine errand, not my bread to earn.
These cows my care, my sustenance, my all,
To tend the pasture, and to keep the stall,
Hence other toil! Sweet music in my heart,
All labour's anguish shall in song depart.
O joyful art! at my returning home,
To bid the merry notes of wonder come,
Till the old cot, and all within it doat,
As magic Roger chose the witching note."
"Vows are well made when no temptation nigh." "Warned of temptation, father, let me try?"
"The trial made, the longing then extends.
Where without crowds shall find the fiddler friends?" "Father, I vow." The doubting father heard. "I swear!" said Roger; and he kept his word.
The fiddle came. The Parson undertook
To solve the crotchets of the lesson-book.
Of moody aspect, yet of manners bland,
Men loved the Parson they could understand,
Plain truth his teaching saw hot tears pursue,
Himself oft weeping at the scenes he drew.
He loved glad faces; saying, honest mirth
Was Christian doctrine, showing inward worth.
He liked good sayings, that were not ill timed;
He loved sweet music-and they say he rhymed.
Here had I sung, invoked the violin,
The end it answers, and the origin;
The men illustrious by the viol made,
The viol which illustrious fingers play'd,
But that I trembled, when my bow was drawn,
At critic grinders, and the audient yawn.
What was the sky to Roger? what the world?
What heroes peaceful, or what flag unfurl'd?
War, peace, creation bended to his bow,
To conquer which his only aim to know.
He conquer'd, too, and as the horse hair laid
Across the eat, Mirth felt it, and obeyed.
Ah! Roger old, methinks I see thee now,
Scarce had the Priest more reverend a brow,
When, full of zeal, thy hearty voice outpour'd,
"Sing we the praise and glory of the Lord."
A white smock-frock, neat plaited at the breast,
Pearl-button'd, heav'd upon his manly chest.
Around his neck, loose flowing with a swing,
A kerchief blacker than the raven's wing;
In shorts as yellow as the yolky egg,
In snow-white stockings that adorn'd his leg ;
The senseless ground, impressive of his tread,
Confess'd his boots were adequate to lead;
As in low hat, with bag beneath his arm,
That hid at once, and yet display'd his charm-
His charm that made life harmony and gay,
To lead at church he led the miry way.
Four vicars did unto the desk succeed,
Since Roger first acquired power to lead.
Of habits various, as of various mind,
Yet all to Roger were respectful kind.
His fiddle had the comprehensive ease,
The mild to tickle, and the stern to please.
Four vicars died, yet Roger fiddled on,
True as old patrons had been never gone;
Nor be it blasphemy, at church, to say,
Sunday no Sabbath had he been away
Still with three cows he kept away distress,
The mystic number, neither more or less;
Of three possess'd he enter'd upon life,
Possess'd of three he quitted mortal strife.
Nor wife had Roger, or a child to show-
These luxuries lost, consoled for by his bow.
Dull time rejoiced to hear the ancient sing
Of Abbot Cantuar and John the king;
Of Robin Gray, and Hood's illustrious men,
Made famous by an unrecorded pen :
Of William's ghost, at every pointed pause,
Twinkling his eye with inward bought applause.
Grief knew no neighbourhood where Roger play'd,
His heart was harmless as the mirth he made;
His habits happy, as the well-set chime,
Which each hour tuning, smooths the course of time.
Thus milking cows, and music his employ,
Roger turned ninety might be called a boy,-
A boy, in all his innocent delight,
His day was healthy, undisturbed his night,
When, one sad hour, I heard the tolling bell
Shock the still vale with Death's recording knell.
"Enquire who's dead?"-The news return to hand,—
"Old Roger, sir, has sought the better land."
"Is Roger dead?-sure Roger could not die!"
"Dead in his chair, his fiddle laying by."
His end was sudden, and his will was short;
For will was rummaged, writ in rustic sport,-
"My cot and cows I give to neighbour John,
God grant he prosper like his master gone.
In oaken coffin let me take mine ease.
Let John's bequest be subject to the fees.
And in the coffin let my fiddle rest,
Strung, tuned, the bow reclining on my breast.
This be John's care: to this his heirship bound.
Signed by me, Roger, all in health and sound."
Smiling above, but sorrowful beneath,
The day that Roger sought the house of death.
Sad was the sexton, still the village girls,
The lads uncapp'd, and aired their carrot curls.
Each heart was heavy, though it knew not why,
Tears, too, were ready, yet refrain'd the eye.
For Roger's loss, though tearless not unwept,
All felt the village and its music slept.
Kin had he none, yet mourners were supplied,
Whose grief spoke inward what the tongue denied.
So awful death appear'd in Roger dead,
The very tones to call it awful fled.
E'en the vile dog, that used to bay aloud,
At tolling bells, look'd tongue-tied at the crowd,
With tail curled round, he wonder'd at the mass,
As now he moped upon the human grass.
O! cheerful news to my desponding heart,
A flower may one day be my fleshly part;
I on a grave a little daisy blown,
Be cull'd, be kiss'd, admired, though now unknown;
Then rest my muse, rest Roger, rest my tear,
Let the world scorn us, and the critic sneer.
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