The Little Town Where I was Born

I’ve loved this land since from my birth;
Its vernal greens, and grassy turf,
And oaks that spread their lingering shade
Over the slumbering virgin maid—
Her dreams of yellow carousels
Dance nimbly, lightly, to the bells
Of village church in valley deep
Twixt hills so wide and cliffs so steep
Lies quiet, sleepy in its mood;
Like owls with their youngling brood.

The little wall retains the gap
Where, as a boy, I used to nap
Within a ditch, where marigolds
Did bloom their flowers sevenfold
(During the summer days so warm
Their blossoms seemed a field of corn.)
Upon this wall is laid a vine
Of both the thick and creeping kind,
Which stretches forth with subtle limb
Towards the oaken groves at whim;
Straight through the ditch, and up the hill
It creepeth slow—but creepeth still!
Until, with time, it reaches those
Luckless limbs, with which it clothes
Those hapless few on forests edge
With its strong Anaconda hedge.

Nearby here's the Vicars house—
A quiet man, much like the mouse;
Whose squinting eyes and smallish head
Suggest he’s that, not man instead.
Nearby this grove, his house resides—
And man is proved where he abides—
So, like unto his noble trade,
The Vicars house is Vicar made;
Of grey and moldering granite stone
Is both his fine and finite home:
Though seeming sad in outward way
Inside is found alive and gay.
A brightened tone of lighter hue
Touches all within ones view;
The rooms are large, the air is clean,
The larders full, and thirteen
Types of wine sit on the shelf
‘Round half of which he’s made himself.
(He like most working in that trade,
Drinks only wine and lemonade.)

Yet, not in here, but in chapel tall
Is where he’s found most of all;
Among the hymns and rosary
He stands astute, much like the tree
Stands firm in base, but leaves entwined
Do sway with every wind-fall chimed.
The incense thick—his usual breath—
So seems dull the air when he’s left
These hallowed coves, and amongst soil
Smells the sweat of daily toil.
Lost then is the fragrance of myrrh
And instead, with a hazy blur
Is mingled others in his nose;
While yet, there lingers on his clothes
The perfumed spice of cinnamon
Which could confuse a better man:
The stench of daily commonness
Mixed with holy fragrances.

The chapels large, and loud its hall
Resounds with Sabbath mass to call;
And then, its pews with people filled
So full their nearly over-spilled,
Its organs chime with worship song
Over—at least—an hour long.
Loud, while lingering and mellow
Crowds follow the organ bellow,
So clamorous they almost strive
To make the Gargoyles alive;
Their songs will echo in the deep
Until the shepherd shearing sheep—
Whom stands quite some miles away—
Will likewise hear the mass that day.

Then, after this, the people will
Leave off that high and steeple hill,
And following the riverside
Will walk that way till it turns wide
To form, at length, into a pool
Upon which shores there sits a school,
Whose study halls of knowledge throes
Is sneered by child’s wrinkled nose.
Study they won’t—no, to the park
They will commence until its dark;
With lollipops and youthful games
They will indulge, and call the names
Of stronger boys to grab and fling
The smaller ones into the spring.
And grownups sit all the while
Upon their quilts, with a smile
Formed on their face from ear to ear,
While they indulge in beef and beer.

Tomorrow markets open seams
Will become Joseph’s coat of dreams:
(With tarps of bold orange and blue
It dazzles from a bird’s eye view,)
While fruits and meats of all delight
Are sold throughout the day till night,
And all the smells of ancient spice
Could cause a miser to think twice.
Then, when the grocers work is done
He will return to greet his son
With wonder at how fast he’s grown,
And gladness that he now is home;
And, hearing tales of starlit skies
The child laughs with wondrous eyes.
Until he sleeps he’ll hear the tales
Of blacksmiths crafting copper nails,
How tailors—by magicians art—
Could sew their clothes while in the dark;
Then, by and by, with sleepy head
Will stomp upstairs to go to bed.

Yes, all these things I’ve ever knew
And now have shown from me to you,
Have I known since from my birth
Adoring each pastoral worth;
Each person here I’ve called my friend
And married each river-bend,
And every cloud within the sky
I’ve clambered in with playful eye,
Each fawn that now becomes a doe—
I’ve cared for them and watched them grow—
And the hedge that vastly overgrown
I’ve slumbered in and loved alone.