Eclogue I. The Old Mansion-House.

STRANGER.
        Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
        Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task
        Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.


OLD MAN.
        Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
        Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy,
        In this same parish, near the age of man
        For I am hard upon threescore and ten.
        I can remember sixty years ago
        The beautifying of this mansion here
        When my late Lady's father, the old Squire
        Came to the estate.


STRANGER.
            Why then you have outlasted
        All his improvements, for you see they're making
        Great alterations here.


OLD MAN.
            Aye-great indeed!
        And if my poor old Lady could rise up--
        God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold
        The wicked work is here.


STRANGER.
            They've set about it
        In right good earnest. All the front is gone,
        Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road
        Round to the door. There were some yew trees too
        Stood in the court.


OLD MAN.
            Aye Master! fine old trees!
        My grandfather could just remember back
        When they were planted there. It was my task
        To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me!
        All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall!
        My poor old Lady many a time would come
        And tell me where to shear, for she had played
        In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride
        To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say
        On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
        A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
        And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon
        Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!


STRANGER.
        But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now,
        A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
        Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste.
        I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh,
        And then there's some variety about it.
        In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose,
        And the laburnum with its golden flowers
        Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes
        The bright red berries of the mountain ash,
        With firs enough in winter to look green,
        And show that something lives. Sure this is better
        Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
        All the year round like winter, and for ever
        Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
        So dry and bare!


OLD MAN.
        Ah! so the new Squire thinks
        And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis
        To have a stranger come to an old house!


STRANGER.

        It seems you know him not?


OLD MAN.
            No Sir, not I.
        They tell me he's expected daily now,
        But in my Lady's time he never came
        But once, for they were very distant kin.
        If he had played about here when a child
        In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
        And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,
        That fell so thick, he had not had the heart
        To mar all thus.


STRANGER.
        Come--come! all a not wrong.
        Those old dark windows--


OLD MAN.
            They're demolish'd too--
        As if he could not see thro' casement glass!
        The very red-breasts that so regular
        Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,
        Won't know the window now!


STRANGER.
            Nay they were high
        And then so darken'd up with jessamine,
        Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree
        However. Did it not grow in and line
        The porch?


OLD MAN.
        All over it: it did one good
        To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom.
        There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside.
        My Lady loved at evening to sit there
        And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
        And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog
        She did not love him less that he was old
        And feeble, and he always had a place
        By the fire-side, and when he died at last
        She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
        Ah I she was good to all! a woful day
        'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!


STRANGER.
        They lost a friend then?


OLD MAN.
        You're a stranger here
        Or would not ask that question. Were they sick?
        She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
        She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter
        When weekly she distributed the bread
        In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
        The blessings on her! and I warrant them
        They were a blessing to her when her wealth
        Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
        It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
        Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire
        Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs
        So chearful red,--and as for misseltoe,
        The finest bough that grew in the country round
        Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went
        So bountiful about! a Christmas cask,
        And 'twas a noble one! God help me Sir!
        But I shall never see such days again.


STRANGER.
        Things may be better yet than you suppose
        And you should hope the best.


OLD MAN.
            It don't look well
        These alterations Sir! I'm an old man
        And love the good old fashions; we don't find
        Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyed
        All that my Lady loved; her favourite walk
        Grubb'd up, and they do say that the great row
        Of elms behind the house, that meet a-top
        They must fall too. Well! well! I did not think
        To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps
        A comfort I shan't live to see it long.


STRANGER.
        But sure all changes are not needs for the worse
        My friend.


OLD MAN.
        May-hap they mayn't Sir;--for all that
        I like what I've been us'd to. I remember
        All this from a child up, and now to lose it,
        'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left
        As 'twas;--I go abroad and only meet
        With men whose fathers I remember boys;
        The brook that used to run before my door
        That's gone to the great pond; the trees I learnt
        To climb are down; and I see nothing now
        That tells me of old times, except the stones
        In the church-yard. You are young Sir and I hope
        Have many years in store,--but pray to God
        You mayn't be left the last of all your friends.


STRANGER.
        Well! well! you've one friend more than you're aware of.
        If the Squire's taste don't suit with your's, I warrant
        That's all you'll quarrel with: walk in and taste
        His beer, old friend! and see if your old Lady
        E'er broached a better cask. You did not know me,
        But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy
        To make you like the outside; but within--
        That is not changed my friend! you'll always find
        The same old bounty and old welcome there.