Poems (Cook)/Rhymes by the Roadside

by Eliza Cook

RHYMES BY THE ROADSIDE.

We're losing fast the good old days
Of rattling wheels and gallant grays;
We're losing fast the luggaged roof,
The whistling guard and ringing hoof;—
The English stage and high-bred teams
Will soon exist but in our dreams;
And whirling mail or startling horn
Ne'er cheer the night, nor rouse the morn.
Ah, well-a-day! no cracking lash,
No champing bit, no restless dash,
No "pull up" at the "Cross" or "Crown,"
'Mid all the gossips of the town:
For Time, with deep, railroaded brow,
Changes all things but horses, now.—
Yet, who shall wish for nobler speed?
Who would forego the rapid steed!
Who that loves Beauty would resign.
The winding road for formal "line"?
'Tis joy to mount the lofty seat,
That bears us from the city street;
To lightly roll from pent-up smoke,
To singing bird and towering oak,
Scanning, despite our bounding haste,
The forest dell and heath-clad waste,—
On through the valley, rich and rife
With fragrant air and blooming life,
Where the clear brooklet softly flows,
Kissing the lily as it goes;—
Where quiet herds lie down to crop
The grass-blade and the clover-top;
Where the low cottage-thatch is seen
'Mid trailing arms of jasmine green,
And the wide-flinging casement-glass
Shows the pet flower to all who pass.

Away! away-one lingering look
At valley, cottage, herds and brook;
And bowling on, we gain the hill
Crown'd with the old church and the mill.
The sun-ray plays upon the spire,
Tinging the cross with glancing fire;
The south wind freshens there, but fails
To turn the heavy sluggard sails;
The miller stands with peering eye,
To see the famed "Eclipse" go by;
His next five minutes fairly lost
In wondering what that chestnut cost;
And why they've changed the clever lay
That graced the pole the other day.

Onward the tiny hamlet comes;
The village nest of peasant homes;
The ploughman's cur wakes from his doze,
With perking ears and sniffing nose;
The child upon the red-brick floor
Crawls quickly to the open door;
The old man and the matron stand
With staring gaze and idle hand;
The maiden, smiling, nods her head
To the blithe fellow donn'd in red;
No matter what they have to do,
They all must see the mail go through.

The inn is reach'd: host, men, and boys,
Gather around with bustling noise.
Few moments serve—the harness bands.
Are flung off as by magic hands;
The loosen'd nags are panting hard,
Seeking the well-known stable-yard;
Forth come the wheelers—glossy black—
With bit in mouth, and cloth on back:
Quick bring the leaders-two bright roans
As ever spurn'd the wayside stones;
Each buckle tight—'tis done, "All right!"
The steeds are ready for their flight;
And old bluff Jehu once again
Swings up to rule the whip and rein.
Onward we hie, like shooting star
That runs all dazzling-feet and far;
And worthy sight for king to see,
Are four bold coursers, fast and free.

O England! many an olden tale
Shall yet be told o'er Christmas ale,
By lips unborn, and they shall say
What rare works graced their fathers' day.
Young boys shall chatter in the sun,
And tell what English steeds have done;
Records shall note the bygone age,
And vaunt the matchless, English stage.

Ah, well-a-day! the glory's o'er;
Soon steed and stage shall be no more:
The roads that break our fertile earth
Seem lonely in their human dearth.
Ah! grieve I will, and grieve I must,
To miss the mail-coach cloud of dust;
To think that I shall never see
The blood-like team, so fast and free;
And find old Time, with scowling brow,
Changing all things but horses, now.