THE RECTORY IN THE VALE OF TRENT.
BY GEORGE SEARLE PHILLIPS.
or far from Lincoln, near the great Cliffe Road
Which overlooks the valley of the Trent,
Where woods and meadows, villages and farms,
Lie stretched in leagues of sunshine, till the scene
Fades 'mid the twilight of the distant hills:
There stands an olden hamlet, sloping down,
Amongst green fields and orchards, to the plain.
A row of peasants' cottages, o'ergrown
With moss, and ivy, and thick clustering vines,
And honeysuckles, faces the high road,
And smiles upon the dusty passenger,
Who sometimes pauses there to quench his thirst
At the cool stream that bubbles up hard by
And finds a voice for the old silent rocks.
Beyond the steep and wagon-rutted lane
Which leads you down amongst the hamlet homes
A stone wall flanks the road for near a mile,
And with an army of ancestral trees
Defends the terrace of a spacious park
That undulates in hill and vale below.
The grey tower of the Church, its weathercock
And dim religious windows, you may see
Far down amongst the graveyard foliage;
And farther on the Rectory appears,
Its roofs all glistening, like Mosaic floors,
In the rich golden shadows of the sun.
And this old hamlet, and the fair domain
Of fertile land for many miles away,
With all its right of falconry and hound,
Are an old lordly heritage of men
More noble than their lineage and name:
Tho their descent is from the Salt Sea Kings,
Who in the dim auroral light of time—
Whilst shadowy Europe, with her giant brood,
Lay huge, and wild, like a dismembered world
Upon the glittering surface of the sea-
First sowed the seed of empire, and became
The rulers and the lawgivers of earth.
Not of this high descent, nor of the deeds
Of olden chivalry, nor the battle feats
His hero fathers in their time achieved,
At Cressy, or at Agincourt, doth boast
The present lord, who holds these lands in trust.
He hath a nobler heritage than these-
In all the human hearts that bless his name.
For he, tho not unmindful of the past,
With its old pride of blazoned heraldry,
Doth rather choose, in this his day, to live
In lordly style, as it becomes a man,
Than to forget the man and play the lord.
And so he scatters blessings all around
The homesteads of his yeomanry and hinds;
And not an aged man, or widow lone,
Or ragged beggar from the Cliffe and Fen,
But knows the bounty of this lordly soul,
Who, like the hospitable sun, has room
At his great hearth for all.
You cannot see the mansion where he dwells,
This man of gifts and graces,—for it lies
Beyond those oaks and pines, which show far off,
Adown the vista of these darkling trees,-
But you may hear the deep-mouthed bay of hounds
Come from the kennels in the vale below,
At noon or eventide; and the hall clock
In the old belfry chamber, strike the hours.
I well remember, in the summer days
Of years long past, how, from my village home,
In this Trent Valley, I did walk along
The Roman road, by Till Bridge, up the Cliffe,
And so with vigorous foot towards Lincoln went,
Hailed by the grey Cathedral towers which loomed
Up thrö the sunny mist, whilst jets of fire
Like glittering rubies in the windows burned,
And all the boundless landscape lay asleep.
And many times I've wandered 'neath the shade
Of these tall trees, beside the old park-wall,
And heard the throstle pour his spirit out
'Midst secret leaves, in bubbling waves of song;
Whilst tiny birds, with blue and crimson wings,
Flitted from spray to spray, with hearts as full, tho voiceless.
And happy thoughts amid these scenes have come,
Like angels unawares, and filled my soul
With sudden blessedness, and joy serene,
Till I forgot the sorrow of my days,
And the poor hunger-home I left behind.
Long years have past since then, and I have been
A frequent guest at the good Rector's house
Which stands within the Park, the Church hard by,
Just as we saw it there, awhile ago,
Whilst looking o'er the wall, from the high-road.
It is a happy home, hid like a bower
In some enchanted realm of Araby,
'Mongst odorous shrubs, and smoke of burning flowers,'
And high o'er arching trees, whose branches bear
Dark colonies of rooks from year to year.
Its windows open to the orient East,
Where sweeps the prospect of the glorious Park,
A woodland picture floating in a green
And shadowy sea of grass, suntinct :—
Where flocks of sheep and sturdy oxen graze
Knee-deep in clover blossoms; or the stag,
Antlered and proud, with his wild eloquent eye,
Stands guardian o'er a group of crouching deer,
Under the branches of some spreading beech.
You enter from the hamlet, by a path
Graveled and broad, with beds of shrubs and flowers
On either hand. The great Newfoundland dog,
Fire-eyed, and shaggy as his native rocks,
Jumps at his chain, and barks to see you pass.
He knows a beggar by the coat he wears,
And hath an instinct for a gentleman.
The merry boys and dark-haired rosy girls
Of the good Rector, love no better sport
Than to unloose his collar, and to romp
On the green lawn, with their rude playfellow;
Whilst happy faces in the drawing room
Look thro the window panes approvingly,
And the old pine trees shake their hoary sides
In choral echoes to the children's laughter.
The Rector is a man well known I think,
In the high courts of Heaven, as one who serves
The King his master with a ready hand
And heart brimful of love for all his race.
A reverent, trustful, brave, and manly heart,
That conquers enmity by kindest deeds,
And in the furrows of a barren world
Sowing the corn of God, 'good will and peace,'
the golden harvestings of love. The office and the calling of the Priest
Are once more sacred thrö this noble soul,
Whom men, far off and near, call just and good.
The secret sorrow of the cottage home,
The larger sorrow of the silent world,
Struggling with hopeless woes, he seeks and shares.
In every man he sees a brother man,
Tho clad in rags and all defaced by sin,
And fain would bring him to his Maker back,
Restored and beautified afresh; for he
Has a large faith in human destiny,
As well as love for man; and sees thrö all
The darkling mists of the forthcoming time,
And the wild fires which haunt that dubious way,
The vision of a glorious world, whose law
Shall make for man a noble Commonwealth,
Where the great prophecies of Seer and Bard
Out of remotest days, shall be fulfilled,—
And crime and want, and all the ugly shapes
Whelped from the womb of sin, which day and night
Howl horrid blasphemies to heaven, shall die,—
And Peace shall reign, and Plenty pour his horn.
And thus, I, grateful, find that God preserves
His ancient promises, alive and sure,
Amid the roaring surge and gulfs of Time
Where buried worlds lie broken with their bones ;-
That Hope, and Truth, and Faith can never die,
But here and there a consecrated heart,
Enshrines them as the jewelery of Heaven,
And keeps them safe for the immortal brows.
Such themes, and others of a cheery kind
(About old friendships, and the days of yore
When Hall the 'Forester,' and Wandering Boyes,
And Philip Bailey-with his head of fire,
And eyes that flash into eternity,-
And Thomas Spenser, with his music voice,
And words like groups of living statuary,-
Were guests beneath this hospitable roof),
Have made each dinner at the Rectory seem-
To me, at least, who shared the talk and fare
In the wise company of present guests-
Like an old Greek Symposium; whilst the wine,
Bubbling up beads of rubies in the glass,
Was quaft in honor of these absent Peers,
Whose immortality seemed scarce reward
Enough for our libations. Jovial times!
When mirth was tempered with the sage discourse,
And generous gushes from the mighty heart
Mingled with hearts as mighty, and the hand,
That grasped another's, met as flame meets flame,
Upon a sacred altar. Not for me
Are noisy feasts and Bacchanalian revels;
Bnt the banquet proper, when the friends are met, As I have met them here, I like full well.
And not less pleasant in the summer nights,
When twilight shadows usher in the stars,
And the soft moon-beam sleeps upon the pane,
To leave the piles of grapes and tropic fruits,
The broken almonds and the orange rinds,
And all the dropping ruins of the wine,
And hold a Banquet in the drawing-room.
'Esthetic tea,' I think the Germans call
This graceful Feast of Beauty, where the eyes
Of splendid women, fit to light the heavens,
Look black and deep and glorious, or shine
With milder radiance like the evening star;
And voices soft as the Eolian winds,
Or merry as the laughter of the rills,
Make music in the ear; whilst all the flowers
Tremble with odors in the window-sill,
And float the air like incense. At such times,
In the old Rectory drawing-room, I've seen
The lady mother, quiet and serene,
Dispensing Mocha to the guests with smiles,
And words as sweet as morning violets;
Whilst clustering round her at the marble board,
Their faces gleaming in the silver urns,
The silent children sat; and grouped apart
In soft relief, which longed to lose its round
And mingle with the finer statuary,
The men looked on the women; and their talk
Was of such themes as poets love to sing,
When, in the sabbath sunshine of the soul,
They lie with beautiful and holy thoughts.
Alas! for me, a sinner among saints
I have a memory of a mortal mould
(Which makes me feel immortal)
Snatched from the circle of these magic teas,
And stained with love's idolatry and fire.
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