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The next post here will be on Friday 20th April. 

From then on the new version of the blog will be updated every Friday

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No.70

Ill Fares the Land

from the Deserted Village by

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

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No.69

What is this thing called Love?

The Love Letter

c.1770
by
Jean-Honoré Fragonard
1732-1806

Oil on Canvas
83.2 cm x 67 cm

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The Love Letter
1669-70
by

Johannes Vermeer
1632-75

Oil on Canvas
44 cm x 38.5 cm

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Love's Messenger
1885
by

Marie Spartali Stillman

1844-1927
Water colour, tempera and gold colour 
on paper mounted on wood
32 cm x 26 cm

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No.68

The Things People Say

I never made a mistake in grammar but once in my life, and, as soon as I done it, I seen it. -  CARL SANDBURG 1878-1967

I have been told that Wagner's music is better than it sounds. - MARK TWAIN 1835-1910

If you think it's hard to meet new people, try picking up the wrong golf ball. - JACK LEMMON 1925-2001

This very night I am going to leave off tobacco. Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised. - CHARLES LAMB 1775-1834

There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them. - JOSEPH BRODSKY - 1940-96

Nowhere can a man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul. - MARCUS AURELIUS 121-180 AD

Good women always think it is their fault when someone else is being offensive. Bad women never take the blame for anything. -ANITA BOOKNER 1928-2015

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. -VIRGINIA WOOLF 1882-1941

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No.67

George Gordon Byron 1788-1824 

became known as Lord Byron and was regarded as one of the greatest of British poets. He was born in London but spent much of his boyhood in the north east of Scotland. 

Among his poetry is Dark Lochnagar written in 1807. It recalls the visits he used to make to that part of Aberdeenshire. The work has been set to a tune attributed to Sir Henry Bishop and is a popular standard in Scottish folk music.

Dark Lochnagar

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,

In you let the minions of luxury rove,

Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war,

Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.

On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d

As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.

I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,

For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story

Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Shades of the dead! Have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.

Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,

Winter presides in his cold icy car.

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar.

Lochnagar in Winter
Thanks to the photographer Bruce McAdam

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No.66

Images thanks to Pexels.com

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No.65

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

Rose Hartwick Thorpe

1850-1939

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;

And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,

He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,

"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die

At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart

Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),

"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:

Now I'm old, I will not falter. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,

"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;

One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.

Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;

As she climbed the slimy ladder on which fell no ray of light,

Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.

See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,

As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung, far out. The city seemed a speck of light below,

There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,

Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.

Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,

Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done

Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun

Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,

Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,

Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;

And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.

"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,

All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,

Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,

Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."

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