And save the waggon rocking round,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
••••••
And in the over-heated air
Not one light thing is floating there,
Save that to the earnest eye
The restless heat is twittering by."
Or a picture in perfect harmony with the burst of joy which all creation feels in early summer-time:—
"The driving boy beside his team,
Of May-month's beauty now will dream.
And cock his hat, and turn his eye
On flower, and tree, and deepening sky;
And oft burst loud in fits of song.
And whistle as he reels along;
Cracking his whip in starts of joy,
A happy, dirty, driving boy."
But what are one or two quotations,—his poems abound with descriptions and touches of character true and vivid as these. It seems strange, indeed, that they should be so little appreciated, so that it does not appear to be worth the while of any publisher to bring them out in a popular form.
But to return to his actual history; his wants drove him now to a singular trade for a poet. He tried to hawk his own books about the country; but this too was a failure, and he gave it up in despair.
With fierce ardour he began again to labour on his little farm. Sometimes he would work on fifteen or sixteen hours a day, but it was in vain. His frantic efforts to keep the wolf from the door only made it come the sooner. He was confined to his bed for a month. Poverty, gaunt and hungry, came upon him. His children wanted bread.
When he came out of his sick-room, his creditors began dunning him, especially his landlord, who threatened to turn him out of his house.
His love for the old place was something touching—something impossible to conceive of by those who have ample means, and are accustomed to the pleasures and benefits of constant change.
