Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Dr. Johnsons Penance
By Walter Thornbury (18281876)
A
(Is what I see arise),
Crowded with farmers, ruddy men,
Muffled up to the eyes;
For cold and bitter rain beats fast
From the gray cheerless skies.
Past knots of wrangling hinds,
A burly man with deep-lined face,
Chafed by the churlish winds,
Strides on like dreary packman who
His galling burden binds.
His wig is scorched and worn;
His slouching coat flaps loose and long,—
Its buttons but of horn;
The little lace upon its cuffs
Is frayed and soiled and torn.
Of shrinking leaf and flower,—
A day the sun to shine or warm
Has neither wish nor power;
So fitful falls the wavering veil
Of the cold bitter shower.
In chattering dismay,
Like wicked thoughts in sinners’ minds
When they kneel down to pray;
He sees them not, for darkness deep
Bars out for him the day.
Seem yawning in the way;
The sun, a mere vast globe of jet,
Bodes God’s great wrath alway;
He hears strange voices on his track
That fill him with dismay.
Like demons in the sky,
Watching to do some hurt to man,
But for the sleepless eye
Of God, that, whether day or night,
Still baffles them from high.
Toils on, close covered in;
The pedler, spite of cloak and pack,
Is drenched unto the skin;
The road to Wroxeter is thronged
With cattle crowding in.
The farmers canter on
(Sure corn that morning has gone down,
They look so woe-begone);
Till now shone out the steeple vane
The sun has flashed upon.
The burly man strides fast;
On market stalls and crowded pens
No eager look he cast;
He thought not of the wrangling fair,
But of a day long past.
Stands towering o’er the stalls,
Where on the awnings, brown and soaked,
The rain unceasing falls;
Where loud the vagrant auctioneer
With noisy clamor bawls.
That laughing rustics fill,
But gazes on one stall where sits
A stripling, quiet and still,
Selling his books, although the rain
Falls ceaselessly and chill.
He stands, head low and bare,
Heedless of all the scoffing crowd
Who jostle round and stare,
Crying, “Why, lads, here ’s preacher man
Come to this April Fair.”
Holding his swollen side;
Another clacks his whip, a third
Begins to rail and chide,
While salesmen cried their prices out
And with each other vied.
For one long hour at least,
The marketwomen leering said,
“This is some crazy priest
Doing his penance,—pelt him, boys!
Pump on the Popish beast!”
One with raised hammer there
Kept it still poised, to see the man;
The buyers paused to stare;
The farmer had to hold his dog,
Longing to bite and tear.
The stranger strides away,
Past deafening groups of flocks and carts
And many a drunken fray;
The sin of fifty years’ agone
That penance purged away.
Or foolish, weak regret;
He was a great good man whose eyes
With tears that day were wet;
’T was a brave act to crush his pride,—
Worthy of memory yet.