THE TRAVELLER BY NIGHT IN NOVEMBER.

HE who with journey well begun
 Beneath the morning's cheerful sun
 Stretches his view o'er hill and dale,
 And distant city, (through its veil
 Of smoke, dark spires and chimneys seen,)
 O'er harvest-lands and meadows green,
 What time the roused and busy, meeting
 On king's high-way exchange their greeting,
 Feels his cheered heart with pleasure beat,
 As on his way he holds. And great
 Delight hath he who travels late
 When the fair moon doth hold her state
 In the clear sky, while down and dale
 Repose in light so pure and pale! 
While lake and pool and stream are seen
 Weaving their maze of silvery sheen,
 And cot and mansion, rock and glade,
 And tower and street in light and shade
 Strongly contrasted are. I trow,
 Better than noonday seems his show,
 Soothing the pensive mind. 
And yet,
 When moon is dark and sun is set,
 Not reft of pleasure is the wight,
 Who, in snug chaise, at close of night,
 Begins his journey in the dark,
 With crack of whip and ban-dogs' bark,
 And jarring wheels and children bawling,
 And voice of surly ostler, calling
 To post-boy, through the mingled din,
 Some message to a neighbouring inn. 
All sounds confusedly in his ear;
 The lonely way's commencing cheer. 

With dull November's starless sky
 O'er head, his fancy soars not high. 
The carriage lamps a white light throw
 Along the road, and strangely shew
 Familiar things that cheat the eyes,
 Like friends in motley masker's guise. 
 "What's that? or dame, or mantled maid,
 Or herd-boy gathered in his plaid,
 Who leans against yon wall his back?" 
 "No 'tis in sooth a tiny stack
 On peat or turf or cloven wood —
 Of cottage fire the winter's food." 
 "Ha! yonder shady nook discovers
 A gentle pair of rustic lovers." 
 "Out on't! a pair of harmless calves,
 Through ragged bushes seen by halves." 
 "What thing of strange, unshapely height,
 Approaches slowly on the light,
 That like a hunch-backed giant seems,
 And now is whitening in its beams?" 
 "'Tis but a hind, whose burly back
 Is bearing home a well-filled sack." 
 "What's that like spots of fleckered snow
 On the road's margin clustered so?" 
 "'Tis linen left to bleach by night. " —
 "Gramercy on us! see I right? 
Some witch is casting cantraps there,
 The linen hovers in the air!" 
 "Pooh! soon or late all wonders cease,
 We have but scared a flock of geese." 

Thus oft through life we do misdeem
 Of things that are not what they seem. 
Ah! could we there with as slight skathe
 Divest us of our cheated faith! 

And then, belike, when chiming bells
 The near approach of waggon tells,
 He wistful looks to see it come,
 Its bulk emerging from the gloom,
 With dun tarpawling o'er it thrown,
 Like a huge Mammoth moving on. 

But still more pleased, through murky air,
 He spies the distant bonfire's glare;
 And, nearer to the spot advancing,
 Black imps and goblins round it dancing;
 And nearer still, distinctly traces
 The featured disks of happy faces,
 Grinning and roaring in their glory,
 Like Bacchants wild of ancient story,
 And making murgeons to the flame,
 As it were play-mate in the game. 
Full well, I trow, could modern stage
 Such acting for the nonce engage,
 A crowded audience, every night,
 Would press to see the jovial sight;
 And this, from cost and squeezing free,
 November's nightly travellers see. 

Through village, lane or hamlet going,
 The light from cottage window, shewing
 Its inmates at their evening fare,
 By rousing fire, where earthenware
 With pewter trenchers, on the shelf,
 Give some display of worldly pelf,
 Is transient vision to the eye
 Of him our hasty passer by;
 Yet much of pleasing import tells,
 And cherished in his fancy dwells,
 Where simple innocence and mirth
 Encircle still the cottage hearth. 
Across the road a fiery glare
 Doth now the blacksmith's forge declare,
 Where furnace-blast, and measured din
 Of heavy hammers, and within
 The brawny mates their labour plying,
 From heated bar the red sparks flying,
 Some idle neighbours standing by
 With open mouth and dazzled eye;
 The rough and sooty walls with store
 Of chains and horse-shoes studded o'er,
 And rusty blades and bars between,
 All momently are heard and seen. 

Nor does he often fail to meet,
 In market town's dark, narrow street,
 (Even when the night with onward wings
 The sober hour of bed-time brings,)
 Amusement. From the alehouse door,
 Having full bravely paid his score,
 Issues the tipsy artizan,
 With some sworn brother of the can,
 While each to keep his footing tries,
 And utters words solemn and wise. 

The dame demure, from visit late,
 Her lantern borne before in state
 By sloven footboy, paces slow
 With pattened feet and hooded brow. 

Where the seamed window-board betrays
 Interior light, right closely lays
 The eves-dropper his curious ear,
 Some neighbours fire-side talk to hear;
 While, from an upper casement bending,
 A household maid, perhaps, is sending
 From jug or pot, a sloppy shower
 That makes him homeward fleetly scour. 
From lower rooms few gleams are sent
 Through shortened shutter-hole or rent;
 But from the loftier chambers peer
 (Where damsels doff their gentle gear
 For rest preparing) tapers bright,
 That give a momentary sight
 Of some fair form with visage glowing,
 With loosened braids and tresses flowing,
 Who busied by the mirror stands
 With bending head and upraised hands
 Whose moving shadow strangely falls
 With size enlarged on roof and walls. 
Ah! lovely are the things, I ween,
 By speed's light, passing glam'rie seen! 
Fancy so touched will oft restore
 Things once beheld and seen no more. 

But now he spies the flaring door
 Of bridled Swan or gilded Boar,
 At which the bowing waiter stands
 To know the alighting guest's commands. 
A place of bustle, dirt and din,
 Swearing without, scolding within;
 Of narrow means and ample boast,
 The traveller's stated halting post,
 Where trunks are missing or deranged,
 And parcels lost and horses changed. 

Yet this short scene of noisy coil
 But serves our traveller as a foil,
 Enhancing what succeeds, and lending
 A charm to pensive quiet, sending
 To home and friends, left far behind,
 The kindliest musings of his mind;
 Or, should they stray to thoughts of pain,
 A dimness o'er the haggard train
 A mood and hour like this will throw,
 As vexed and burthened spirits know. 
Night, loneliness and motion are
 Agents of power to distance care;
 To distance, not discard; for then,
 Withdrawn from busy haunts of men,
 Necessity to act suspended,
 The present, past and future blended,
 Like figures of a mazy dance,
 Weave round the soul a dreamy trance,
 Till jolting stone or turnpike gate
 Arouse him from the soothing state. 

And when the midnight hour is past,
 If through the night his journey last,
 When still and lonely is the road,
 Nor living creature moves abroad,
 Then most of all, like fabled wizard,
 Night slily dons her cloak and vizard,
 His eyes at every corner meeting
 With some new slight of dexterous cheating,
 And cunningly his sight betrays
 Even with his own lamp's partial rays. 

The road that in fair, honest day
 Through pasture-land or corn-fields lay,
 A broken hedge-row's ragged skreen
 Skirting its margin rank and green,
 With boughs projecting, interlaced
 With thorn and briar, distinctly traced
 On the deep shadows at their back
 That deeper sink to pitchy black,
 Appearing soothly to the eye
 Like woven boughs of tapestrie, —
 Seems now to wind through tangled wood
 On forest wild, where Robin Hood
 With all his out-laws stout and bold
 In olden days his reign might hold. 
Yea, roofless barn and ruined walls,
 As passing light upon them falls,
 When favoured by surrounding gloom,
 The castle's stately form assume. 

The steaming vapour that proceeds
 From moistened hide of weary steeds,
 And high on either side will rise,
 Like clouds storm-drifted, past him flies;
 While mire cast up by their hoofed feet
 Adds curious magic to deceit,
 Glancing presumptuously before him,
 Like yellow diamonds of Cairngorum. 

How many are the subtle ways
 By which sly night the eye betrays,
 When in her wild fantastic mood,
 By lone and wakeful traveller woo'd! 
Shall I proceed? O no! for now
 Upon the black horizon's brow
 Appears a line of tawny light;
 Thy reign is ended, witching night! 
And soon thy place a wizard elf,
 (But only second to thyself
 In glam'rie's art) will quietly take
 And spread o'er meadow, vale and brake
 Her misty shroud of pearly white;
 A modest though deceitful wight,
 Who in a softer, gentler way
 Will with the wakeful fancy play,
 When woody knolls, their bases losing,
 Are Islands on a lake reposing,
 And streeted town of high pretence,
 As rolls away the vapour dense
 With all its wavy, curling billows,
 Is but a row of pollard willows. 
O no! our traveller, still and lone,
 A far, fatiguing way hath gone;
 His eyes are dim, he stoops his crest,
 And folds his arms and goes to rest.