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SONG VI.

THE IMPASSIONED WAVE.

[TUNE." Thomon um Though."

With ardent feeling and pensive expression.

'Tis sweet up on th' im-pas-sion'd wave To hear the voice of

mu--sic stealing, And while the dark winds wild-ly rave, To Espressione.

catch the genuine soul of feeling; While, all around, the e-ther blue Its Espress.

dim magnetic beam is shedding, And ro- sy tints of heav'nly hue Are

thro' the midnight darkness spreading.

1.

'Tis sweet upon th' impassion'd wave
To hear the voice of music stealing,
And while the dark winds wildly rave,
To catch the genuine soul of feeling!
While all around, the ether blue

Its dim, majestic beam is shedding,
And roseate tints of heavenly hue

Are through the midnight darkness spreading!

2.

So is it, when the thrill of love

Through every burning pulse is flowing;
And like the foliage of the grove,

A holy light on all bestowing!

O! never from this fever'd heart

Shall dreams on wings of gold be flying;

But even when life itself shall part,

I'll think on thee, sweet maid, though dying!

3.

'Twas thus upon the mountain's height

Young Dermod sung his plaint of sorrow,

Regardless of the evening light,

That ushers in the gay to-morrow!

For love had of his cheek bereft

That smile-that glow-of joyous gladness,

And sympathy's cold sting had left

Nought there-but pale and gloomy sadness!

THE HOP GROUND.

Introductory lelter from Mr JACOB ASHPOLE, Hopgrower, to the Editor.*

SIR,

I hand you (1) four sonnets about Hops, by desire of Mr (rabbit it, I almost popt out his name,) but you are to call him R. or Mr R. or else nothing at all, just as you like to take your choice. They were writ to pleasure ine, for I was tired to death of finding your authors of poems, and epics, and ballads, and cantos, and acrostics, and sketches, and operas, and lyrics, and other sorts of verses, of which I don't know one from t'other, not I, though my daughters read a mort of them to me. I was tired, I say, of finding the poets always harping upon the same old story. Hundreds and hundreds constantly go sowing and mowing, and reaping, and threshing into verse; but not a soul, as I ever heard tell, (2) ever came into our hop-grounds to sing a song about them-and why should'nt they, just as well? My girls have got a good many poems and pocket-books, and among 'em there's Thomson's Seasons, and Burns the Ploughman's poems, (which are very badly spelt,) and Bloomfield's Farmer's Boy; so I made 'em look 'em all well over, to see if there was anything about hopplanting anywhere in them, but not a word about it turned up. Indeed, I don't remember hearing a hist on the subject when the girls have been reading their books out loud to me of an evening; but then at those times I am apt to take a nap, for the regular sound of poetry is very composing. So I plucked up spirit one day, and asked a certain person (never mind whohe is a shy cock-set down, R.-that must serve instead of a name)—well, I asked him once, when I saw him loitering by my strip of land in the Parkside grounds, whether he couldn't make a rhyme or two on the hop-picking. He rather caught at the hint, and said he'd give it a thought, and at last brought (3) these four sonnets (I am

a

A

sure he called them sonnets, though Thomson and Bloomfield, who divide their poems by the four quarters of the year, don't call theirs by any such name) but, bless my heart! to call them a full account of all that is done with us from spring to winter is a fine take-in. I civilly pointed out to him, that there was a world of hop-work left out, but got nothing but a flea in the ear by it, for he mumbled something, that " few discriminating marks were sufficient for the purposes of poetry." word in your ear,-friend R. has a very good opinion of himself; try to make him hear reason, and he'll turn as stunt as a mule, and you may as well endeavour to make a hop-plant curl round the pole, from right to left, (which, you know, it never will do) as get him to alter a word in his verses, when he draws up and says, it's all right as it is. Now you'll see that he ha'n't said a syllable about putting plenty of compost on the land, though I should like to know what sort of plants he'd get without it. Not a word about becking the earth well-not a direction about the time for fixing the poles; for, d'ye think we set on our fellows to work, when we first see a cloud and a rain-bow in spring-time, as he seems to reckon that we do? Then who'd guess that in summer we pay women to tie fast the runners to the poles at three different heights? 'Ad whip it, now I know what a sonnet is, if I didn't think his poetship, Mr R., would be offended, I would try if I couldn't make something of this "discriminating mark" myself. Is this anything in the right style? At first they stoop, and those who can't

well bend

Get a sad crick o' the back. But at midheight

The tie is easier made, they stand up

But for the third, 'tis needful to ascend right. A pair of steps, the bines so high extend.

* We subjoin some VARIATIONS in the M.S. letter, noticed by a critical printer's devil, with a few NOTES, by the same claw.

(1) Originally, “ I hand you four pockets of hops, per order of”—the words in italics. Blotted, and corrected, as above.

(2) Mr A. is wrong.-Chr. Smart wrote a didactic poem, entitled the Hop-garden. (3) Here the words "Nos. 1-4, as per bill of parcels," were dashed out.

And this (if there be wind) reveals to sight

Whether their ancles be in decent plight, Or be the props of pounders not but that a good thumping pounder of a leg is main useful in treading the hops into the pockets; though, to be sure, that is not the women-folks' business, but the men's, and yellow enough they come forth from the bags; but observe, that incident too is passed over entirely by R. Now really this here attempt of mine is more than half a sonnet; and if I get encouragement from you, I do think I might venture to supply the descriptions which R. is so positive in refusing to try his hand at. My Betsey, who is quite a dab at dumb crambo of a winter evening, found some of the rhymes for me; and with her help I don't see why I shouldn't work away. For instance, I should have to report that hop-tops, early in the year, make almost as good a dish as grass. To autumn would be added the arrival of the hoppers, who are fetched in waggons from all parts of the country, sailors from Portsmouth,-gypsies from every patch of green in our Surrey lanes, paupers from poorhouses,riff-raff from Saint Giles's, living from hand to mouth by a hundred nameless employments, and beggars from all quarters, for the work is easy; anything, indeed, that has got a pair of hands will do to stand by a basket and strip the branches. Then there's the taking them to be dried at the kilns, and afterwards the pocketting. Not a tittle is there in R.'s verses from which one would guess that the pole putters have a piece of stuff for a shirt bought for them by a subscription among the company of pickers, for whom they tear up the leafy poles, -which bit of holland is folded like a scarf at a funeral, only that it has a gay thingumbob as big as a platter, twiddled all about with ribbon, and sewed to the shoulder, and the whole is worn by the pole-puller, or his favourite lass, about the streets after all is over. Who'd have thought

that a poet could have been mum about the coming in of the last load? Why, it is all drest up with flags and ribbons the men shout away, (if they are not too drunk)-the women prate and giggle,-boys huzza, and toss up their hats wreathed with hop leaves,-dogs bark,-cats vanish,cows scamper tail on end, the world comes out-o'-doors to see what's the fun,-and Farnham is in a merry uproar. For certain, there was not quite so much of this mad-cap rejoicing this last hop time, and whether this was from the weather being wettish, and the crop not over promising, I don't know, or whether it was not, that the racketting of the Radicals with their banners, rather put some of us, who are true King and Constitution men, out of sorts with that sort of triumphing. However, when their flags are forgotten, ours no doubt will be hoisted again, for I don't like to leave off good old customs. If I wrote hop sonnets, I'm sure I wouldn't pass over the stamps upon our bags, they are so prettily done in red and blue and black, and in a different pattern every year. This year's mark is a bell, (though, that we almost always have, for you know, Farnham hops do really bear the bell,) and a stag in a shield, and a couple of dogs for supporters. Then I would describe our going to Weyhill Fair, to sell our pockets, where, as you no doubt know, we Farnham folks have our own acre, in which none but Farnham hops can be pitched,-no, not if it were ever so much wished for, nay, if the King himself, (God bless him, I dare say he loves his ale properly hopped,) grew hops in the garden, at Carlton Palace, or in Windsor Park (which would be nearer Weyhill,) he could not send them to The Acre for sale. Nothing is admitted there, but what was actually produced within the bounds of our parish. So here again would be enough to say; booths, and what not, all painted as natural as life; and Andover, where we sleep, as thick as three in a bed at the time. The more I con

§ I applied to Adam M'Ingan, who is an honorary member of the Horticultural Society, for an explanation of this passage, and he laid it before the meeting at their se derunt. It appears from their benevolent communication to my friend Adam, that none of the gramina, or species of grasses, are cultivated for human food as yet, but that the word grass is here used (as is common in England) in the way of abbreviation for spar. rowgrass, which itself is a corruption of asparagus. The species which hop-tops are said to resemble, is a. officinalis.,

sider it, the more I am brought to think there is no knowing what R. has left out, so short has he been, and so much has he neglected. He couldn't have had his eyes about him, one would imagine, and yet he is a prying sort of a chap too, and likes to see what's going forward, and to know the rights of things. Nevertheless, as he told me, if I chose to see the verses he gave me, in print, that I might send them to Mr Christopher North, care of Mr Blackwood, I here pack them off. (4) I can tell you this, though, that you had best print them exactly as they are set down for you, or I shall have a fine hollabaloo, for he is mighty precise, and will perhaps accuse me of having a finger in the pie, as I have already recommended a little addition, and got no good by it. So don't alter them, though you'll most likely grieve, like me, at their incompleteness; but let him have his way this once, he maybe will come round in time, and do things like other folks. I don't know whether you have a wife or no for me to send my respects

1

to, so if you have, she mustn't be angry. Indeed, I don't overmuch know who you yourself be, but I suppose you're a 'cute printer of ballads, and such like.(5) Only it seems to be a good way off to send to get a little job of this kind done. However, that's no business of mine. So no more at present from your humble servant to command,

JACOB ASHPOLE, Hopgrower.

Farnham, Surrey, 19th October, 1821.

P. S. Don't mind the scratchy appearance of this letter. I was forced. to blot out here and there; for, being mostly used to write to my customers, I can't at once forget I have nothing in this to do with an invoice, or bill of parcels. You don't want a pocket or two of prime last year's growth, do ye? I can promise you they'd make precious stingo, with some of your Lowlant malt. I could serve you cheap if you did; for though there is a baddish crop to-year, we've got so much on hand, that prices are moderate.

THE HOP GROUND; IN FOUR SONNETS.

Spring.

THIS balmy air, and yonder brimming cloud,
Which darkening as the sun-light grows intense,
Sets off its rainbow's bland magnificence,
Resuscitaté within its silent shroud

The vegetative power, no longer bow'd

Beneath chill winter's sway. A stirring sense,
An irrepressible intelligence

Of gladsome times advancing, thaws the blood
Of nature's leafy tribes. Among their peers
The sprouting hop-plants lift their purple heads,
And warn the hinds, deep in the soil beneath

To drive the poles;-this wither'd forest spreads,
Till all the plot, as if with ported spears,
Stands bristling, waiting each its verdant wreath.

Summer.

BEAUTIFUL plant, sample of natural grace!

Whose bines, untrained, garland with gay festoon
The overbrowing hedge; or by the boor

Of dipping branch uplifted, fair repays

(4)" And hope they will prove fine, and request your future orders,"-erased with the pen.

(5) I am not in the actual employ of Mr North, (who indeed is not a printer,) although 1 frequently attend him for copy, or with proofs; nor is my name "Tipsy Thammus," as he in joke reported it, (vol. V, p. 328,) reversing the order of the two names, and spelling them designedly amiss. THOMAS TIBBSON.

The help, by weaving o'er it with its sprays
A sylvan roof, an awning from the sun

For way-worn traveller, who, with heart foredone,
Casts himself prostrate on the grass, and stays
A thankful hour. Yet here, blithe pliant thing!
Man does his worst thy mazy flight to stop,
And links thee to a formal sapless prop,

Which thou obedient climb'st-in many a ring
Grappling the staff-then fall thy shoots down trailing,
The uncouth tools of Art with beauty veiling.

Autumn.

OUR vintage-time is come; the merry bands
Of old and young attend the annual call;
With foliage wound, the hop's supporters fall,
And yield its fruitage to their ready hands-
Clusters devoid of juice-not such as bands

Of sunnier features nurse, where one and all
To the gathering flock, as to a festival,
When the plump grape in luscious ripeness stands.
Yet here the rustic gibe, the heart's light laugh,
The carol from untutor'd throat is heard,
While nimble fingers cull the husky store,
In baskets traversed by a wreathed staff,!
Than which, a nobler thyrsus ne'er was rear'd
By reeling Bacchanal in days of yore.

Winter.

THE grounds are cleared; the uprooted poles are piled
In files of pyramids, a dreary show,
Indicative of coming frost and snow;

And of the hop, which lately cheer'd the wild,
Nought now is extant, but a mass defiled

Of blackening strings, trampled in scorn below.
England no Bacchus boasts, yet we can go

To the grange's low-brow'd hall, where never smiled
His riotous cups, and where we circulate

A nutbrown beverage, flavour'd by the hop,
Drawn bright, and foaming high, for wassail glee,
While Christmas logs are blazing in the grate,

And to old songs and tales, no sullen stop

Is put, but tongues are loud by the good ale set free.

R.

COLERIDGE.

MOONLIGHT MEDITATIONS.

The rich and balmy eve ;

And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued, and cherish'd long.

THE Moon is rising from the ebon tuft
Of stately firs, that wreathe the mountain top
With natural garland; like a deity,

Forth from her shrine majestical she peers,
In silver glory, through the deep blue sky
Ascending; and, with melancholy ray,
Smiles down upon the green autumnal world.

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