Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LANDLORDS, by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A LOOKING-GLASS FOR LANDLORDS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: I now a hearing from the landlord crave
Last Line: Whate'er man hath he may not call his own.
Alternate Author Name(s): Egerton-warburton, R. E.
Subject(s): Landlords & Tenants


I NOW a hearing from the landlord crave,
Who counsel lately to the labourer gave:
Indulgent neighbours, censure not my song,
You need not follow where you think me wrong.

To sunnier clime let those who need it roam,
No spot so happy as an English home;
The summer flowers in radiant beauty clad,
The social mirth that maketh winter glad,
The Christmas chimes from village bell-tower ringing,
Once more glad tidings to the faithful bringing,
The group close cluster'd round the blazing fire,
The child, the mother, and the grey grandsire.
Dear to our heart the friends we meet elsewhere,
More dear, more welcomed when we greet them there.

Still strive—when full your hospitable hall—
By change of pastime to delight them all;
Thwart not your guest whate'er his fancy be,
If strolling please him let his steps be free;
Some, feet on fender, spell the paper o'er,
Sky fair or foul, some cannot rest indoor;
The park, the grounds, the stable, and the farm,
For varying tastes have each their special charm;
What suits the father may not please the son;
Talk not to bishops of the last week's run,
Nor drag the bookworm from his favourite shelf
To some dull pamphlet written by yourself;
To some your house, to some your pictures show,
Welcome when coming, speed them when they go.
The season winter, and if fit the ground,
To throng the field where gather horse and hound,
Eager for sport and emulous to ride,
Some clad in scarlet seek the cover side;
Mount the keen schoolboy, if he love the fun,
But risk no life by lending him a gun.
If, while impatient at the entrance gate
The anxious keeper for the shooters wait,
Should echoing hoof the coming pack proclaim,
Defer the battue nor disturb your game;
The gun must ever to the horn give way,
Disband your beaters till the following day.
In summer morning, with well-chosen fly
And pliant rod, some seek the brook hard by;
Or faintly printing on the green its track,
The bias'd bowl roll'd circling to the jack.

Each female whim should to the host be known,
Some like to talk, some few to bide alone;
Well these are few,—for who content would sit
Or care for converse wanting woman's wit?
One mounts the coachbox with ambitious stride,
One, less aspiring, takes her seat inside;
One, sweetly gifted with the voice of song,
Draws gather'd round her an applauding throng;
Or one there may be, skill'd to touch the string
Of harp, round whom spell-bound the listeners cling,
Of all sweet sounds the sweetest to impart
Through the charm'd ear those tones which touch the heart.
But sing, or play, or walk, or ride, or drive,
All need of tea the stimulant at five.

Should favouring chance have brought two lovers there,
Let jest nor malice wound the tender pair;
Should the fond youth in some lone shade have caught
The blissful hour, long hoped for and long sought,
Let none invade the bower where "silver sweet
Sound lovers' tongues," and hearts responsive beat.

Such are the pleasures he who owns a hall
And loves his neighbour may dispense to all;
But, if by evil fate compell'd to found
And build anew your dwelling from the ground,
(Weigh well my precepts ere the work commence,
In friendship offer'd, free from vain pretence)
Who thinks himself he can his house erect
Employs a noodle for his architect;
Choose your own site, adopt what style you will,
Then counsel take with one of taste and skill.
Some scene of beauty may your eye delight,
But with it warmth and cheerfulness unite;
By no fair prospect far or near be won
To turn its aspect from the southern sun;
Pure air, pure water, in unstinted flow,
If wanting these at once the site forego;
Dig deep the space betwixt the earth and floor,
Then mount by steps, porch-shelter'd, to the door;
No archway raise to span the roof'd approach,
Which though from rain it may protect the coach,
Gives gather'd force to every wind that blows,—
Nor man nor horse to such a blast expose.
Clog not with cumbrous billiard board the hall
To greet new comers with its noisy ball;
If here illplaced, upon its surface set,
The hat, rain drench'd, will leave a stain of jet,
Let not the way that leads thereto disgrace
The guesten chamber's well-proportion'd space,
A labyrinth of lobby, void of clue,
To guide strange feet as lost they wander through.
Oft up five steps our weary knees we bend,
That level reach'd, again by five descend.

Where treasured lore the laden shelves sustain,
Sacred to study, there let stillness reign.
The morning meal enliven'd by its gleam
Of Eastern sky may catch the cheerful beam,
But evening banquet is by glare opprest
Of slanting sun-ray if it face the west;
Let space and width be in the stair display'd,
The feeble foot by helping handrail stay'd,
Your gentle progress to the summit led
By easy riser and expansive tread;
Into three rooms ne'er one long gallery split,
No folding door within its walls admit;
Stone, wood, or plaster, you may gild or paint,
But gold and colour need a due restraint;
My verse encumbering, it would naught avail
To note each trifle, dwell on each detail;
From Bacon's page you maxims old may gain,
And modern hints from later pens obtain;
However cheap, whate'er is bad eschew,
Let all be real, all be strictly true;
Shun all excess, avoid all vain expense,
True taste is founded upon common sense;
What most offends, what most the whole will damn,
The sin no beauty can redeem is SHAM.

Elsewhere though architects escape a fall,
The Lodge nigh proves a stumbling-block to all;
A hut within, without a Doric fane,
Who passing by his laughter can restrain?
In Greek attire, with sandals on her feet,
So draped, its dame would make the farce complete!
Oft-times a plaything from the toy-shop ta'en,
With barge-board fringed and topp'd with glittering vane,
Oft-times a round tower, shaped like chimney pot,
By loop-hole lit, a castellated cot!
Such Mrs. Grundy on her mantel fills
With cedar matches or with twisted spills.

Approach the gateway at right angle true,
Nor slant the road-line through the posts askew;
May your wide park, from every formal tree,
From clump, and belt, and circling hedgerow free,
With oaks be studded, varying each in form,
Whose trunks through ages have defied the storm;
If 'tis not yours to see the herded deer
In park high-paled their antler'd heads uprear,
Let Highland beeves, while fattening for the mart,
A charm of wildness to the scene impart.

Of Gardens needless the delight to tell,
Who prize their charms will cultivate them well.
Stretched 'neath the window let the terrace lie,
Where ruby tints with emerald verdure vie;
Gems of bright flower in tinted gravel set,
In circles boss'd, or interlined in fret;
Such foreground needed to enhance the view
Of sunny meads, and hills in distance blue;
Favour'd, indeed, if midway intervene
Some glassy lake to mirror the fair scene,
Or some broad river with its silent flow
And eddying current sweep the vale below.—
As costly china, on the shelf array'd,
With care is dusted and with care relaid,
So let the terrace with nice hand be kept,
Each vase adjusted, every alley swept;
O'er flowers when faint let moistening spray be thrown,
Each freckling daisy from the green plot mown;
No forest tree by autumn wind swept bare
Sere leaves to scatter o'er the trim parterre,—
Let tapering cypress here extend its shade,
And stately cedars break the balustrade;
From yew tree, fashion'd to fantastic shape,
Clip the young growth, nor let one shoot escape;
Where art reigns absolute with tyrant sway,
Nature enslaved must each caprice obey;
To rest inviting, range the frequent seat,
Alcoved or shelter'd from the sunbeam's heat,
Where noonday dreams may through the fancy flit,
Or whispering lovers in the moonlight sit;
With stream unceasing, if both night and day
Gush forth its waters, let the fountain play;
But vex us not with jet up-towering high
When one short hour exhausts the scant supply,
Like braggart aiming at pretentious show,—
The fountain's charm lies in abundant flow.

Elsewhere create a wilderness of sweets,
Mix'd beds untrammell'd by such quaint conceits,
No flowers with titles longer than their stalk,
With these let pedants interweave their talk,
But such as once were in the Pleasaunce rear'd,
Familiar names by poet's song endear'd!
Here Violets nestle in the early spring,
Here Clove-carnations forth their fragrance fling,
Nigh Love-lies-bleeding Balm and Heartsease grow,
Here with bent head Narcissus white as snow.
Here blushing rose by wing of zephyr fann'd
Gives forth fresh perfume as its leaves expand;
Here turns the Sunflower, here unrivall'd towers
The fragrant Lily, loveliest queen of flowers!

Choice herbs, once held by housewives in esteem,
These worthy still of careful culture deem,
Whence toiling bees may gather sweet supply,
And, honey-laden, store the hive hard by;
Let sheltering shrubs uprear a verdant screen,
Bleak winter gladdening with their summer sheen;
Here let the gold or silver holly-leaf
Mid deeper foliage shine in bright relief;
Here golden Thuja, gorgeously array'd;
Yews, here unclipp'd, the shaded lawn invade;
The upright Juniper, the feathering spray
Of Savine,—Ilex, Arbutus, and Bay;
Vain task to number, or their names rehearse,
A group too crowded to implant in verse.

These let the lawn within its fence confine,
Nor let one truant overstep the line;
"E'en in an ornament its place remark,"—
By Pope thus warn'd spot not the timber'd park
With Pine or Cedar;—garnish not the wood
With Deodara where green Holly stood;
With Rhododendron nor with Laurel shade
The velvet moss that carpets the green glade.
Go, ye who doubt what I would fain instil,
Go, climb the summit of High Stanner's hill;
Uplifted Fir-tops thence o'erlook the vale,
O'er red-stone fragments Honeysuckles trail;
There the broad way, from every leaf swept clean,
Winds, gently sloping, through the woodland scene:
There April suns the Bilberry leaf unfold,
And clothe each glade as t'were with cloth of gold;
Each straggling growth, in wild confusion twined,
Yet all in beauteous harmony combined;
By meddling schemer no smooth vista plann'd,
No thicket trimm'd by the "improver's" hand.

'Tis sweet to wander through the meadows green,
Through paths made fragrant by the scented bean;
Sweet to see corn-fields badged, and wheatsheaf bound,
And golden hillocks pile the stubble ground;
But sweeter far to walk the greenwood glade,
Where nature smiles, in witching charms array'd.
Free from constraint,—and they who nature love
Still find fresh joy where'er their footsteps rove;
There thrills at eve the nightingale his lay,
There, mingled wood-notes greet the wakening day,
There, flowers in spring time from their shelter'd beds
Through wither'd fern leaves thrust their tiny heads;
There white Anemones in clusters lie,
Brilliant as stars that gem the midnight sky;
The woodland dell wild Hyacinths bestrew,
Their azure borrow'd from the sapphire's hue;
Ere yet they fade, like mimic column tall,
Up shoots the bracken and o'ertops them all;
There cherry wild, with milk-white blossom gay,
There Thorn o'erburden'd with the bloom of May;
The Cornel tree which autumn-frosts array
In ruby-raiment ere its leaves decay;
The shining Holly hung with coral beads,
Whose winter store the hungry feldfare needs;
All elsewhere frozen, 'neath whose foliage still
The woodcock shelters and there sheaths his bill;
By woodman's craft stripp'd naked from its spray
The Hazel crate-rods well his toil repay;
Cleft from the Alders which the brook o'ershade
In clogs dry-shod the ditcher plies his spade;
While for naught else, not e'en for oven, fit
The household skewer is from the elder split,—
Here, ere she give her yearly litter birth,
The vixen burrows in the bank her earth,
And watches thence, as yet too young to stray,
Her cubs that gambol in the moonlight ray;
If worth his wage, these with unceasing care
The keeper guards, from poison and from snare.

A weightier subject now my pen invites,
The landlord's duty, and the tenant's rights;
With fear and trembling I approach the theme,
A friend to both, I both alike esteem.—
Made one at Gretna who before were twain,
Once blacksmith's hammer forged the nuptial chain;
The auctioneer, to laird and tenant priest,
The Scottish farm is still by hammer leased;
But thence no friendly intercourse they share,
Though link'd by law, a separated pair;
The highest bidder, he who wins the race
May snap his fingers in the landlord's face;
Long through the years of his extended lease,
By cost and skill his well-earn'd gains increase,
But ere it close he then, to pile the stack,
Scrapes bare each acre and gives nothing back;
Thenceforth though straw be, Pharaoh like, denied,
The tale of bricks must duly be supplied;
The oyster suck'd, he bids the laird farewell,
And leaves him nothing but the empty shell.
More worth that rental where, since days of old,
The same name lingers on its page enroll'd,
Where honest hearts in honesty confide,
More firmly knit than if by red tape tied;
To tenant striving to improve his land,
The generous owner lends a helping hand,
Soothes his ill fortune with well-timed relief,
Shares in his joy, and sorrows in his grief.
To both (and both may on its truth rely),
Will qui non dat non accipit apply.
This maxim well the thriving tenant knows,
He plenty reaps who plentifully sows.
They win no profit who begrudge fair cost,—
Who labour slackly, theirs is labour lost.
All needed building willingly bestow:
The rent may fairly with the farmstead grow.
Leave not too loose nor strain too tight the screw,
From that, neglect, from this will hate ensue;
'Tis like the wheel which on the axle turns,
Too slack it lags, if overtight it burns.
Advice unask'd ne'er intermeddling give,
They know their business best who by it live;
Tell not the practised housewife when to turn
Her cheese, nor teach the dairymaid to churn.
Some deem old pasture better feeds the cow,
Some for green crops upturn it with the plough;
From showyard one a high-bred favourite culls,
One swears an Ayrshire is the best of bulls;
Some think—though laugh'd at they perchance are right—
That cow milks best which finds a rush to bite;
Some choose that seed which others most condemn,
While all ends well such matters leave to them;
This one excepted—firm, nay stubborn, here,
Assert your right and sternly interfere—
Howe'er importunate the tenant's prayer,
Strip not with axe the timber'd hedgerow bare;
Where else for shelter from the midday heat,
Or driving rain storm, can the herd retreat?
Shame be to those who taxed our English oak,
Short-sighted, they the Muse's ire provoke.
That heart of oak, the theme of Dibdin's pen,
The time may come when we shall need again;
That heart of oak which once from shore to shore
Our flag triumphant still to victory bore.

An earnest Churchman you at heart may be,
Still from all hate, from all intolerance free;
If pressed to argue, as you may be oft,
Smooth angry question by an answer soft;
Truth, gently urged, will pierce the thickest skin,
And without wounding reach the heart within;
Point where that text in Holy Writ is found,
"The Church, of truth the pillar and the ground,"
Tell, nursed by pride, how heresy crept in,
Call separation schism, and schism a Sin.

Nor less befriend who need your tender care,
Who many a hardship uncomplaining bear,
From vigorous manhood who to feeble age,
From dawn to sunset labour hard for wage;
Task work for farm, or day work for the squire,
The labourer still is worthy of his hire;
Pay with fair wage a fair day's work when done,
Well if all gains as honestly were won;
In trouble succour him, when wrong'd, redress,
And make his home a home of happiness;
No lure of gold, which California yields,
Deludes him then to quit his native fields;
Then Demagogue and Unionist alike
In vain harangue him, too content to "strike."

If true "more blest to give than to receive,"
How easy here a blessing to achieve!
A costly robe, a gift of jewels rare,
The eyes may dazzle of the rich and fair;
The simplest offerings with more pleasure rife
Win thanks more honest from the poor man's wife;
The homeliest present fills her heart with glee,
A gown, a blanket, or a gift of tea.

Fit agent choose in whom to put your trust,
Alike to tenant and to landlord just;
In all pertaining to his office skill'd,—
Beyond his province 'tis to plant or build.

Each relic left of mediæval skill
Prize and preserve—build new whate'er you will;
But not alone defend it from the foe,
Friends, well intending, may inflict the blow;
Oft times restorers, zealous over much,
By renovation mar what they retouch:—
In sculptured effigy of days gone by,
If high-born dame on tomb recumbent lie,
Re-chisel not the mutilated fold
Of robe or ruff, nor patch with new the old;
If rent the figure of some mail-clad knight,
Heal not the scars of Puritanic spite;
New blazon'd coat will anger more provoke
Than the cleft shield which Cromwell's hammer broke;
In these recorded, if untouch'd, we note
The love that rear'd them and the hate that smote.

He who at heart the poor man's comfort heeds
A word of warning on the cottage needs:
If built anew, together let the pair
Within, without, be plann'd with nicest care;
The doors apart,—discordant if too near,
One inmate's clamour stuns her neighbour's ear;
Dwarf arch the floor, the chimney ne'er misplace
Betwixt two doorways, in an unscreen'd space;
Not yet discover'd by the builder's craft,
Would I could teach how to ensure its draught!
Up from the kitchen let the staircase flee,
So placed, the front is from intrusion free;
Three rooms above let wife and children claim,
One only needful for the widow'd dame;
Thresh'd straw no more supplies a covering fit,
By torturing engine mangled, crush'd, and split;
A roof of tile must now the walls o'erspread,
Whiche'er best pleases, brindled, blue, or red,
A cottage still should but a cottage be,
Nor ape the semblance of gentility;
Plain, simple, honest,—as should be the man
Who dwells within it,—both in style and plan.—
Some interlap, plain brickwork to conceal,
Sliced planks of sawn attenuated deal;
Such lime and lath some think the eye will cheat,—
A timber building in their own conceit!
Panel and plank, alternate black and white,
The painted gew-gaw then perfection quite!

Of all the errors which vile taste has nursed
Old brick defaced with whitewash is the worst,
When time-stain'd wall the sweeping lime-brush smears,
And each warm tint that clothed it disappears;
Thus motley clown in pantomime bestreaks
With chalk or flour his forehead and his cheeks.

With ruthless haste ere cautiously survey'd,
Let not old building in the dust be laid:
Patron of Art,—one of that title vain—
May still a Goth be on his own domain:
From rival bidders, cost whate'er it may,
A Ruysdael landscape he will bear away,
Then straight demolish with unsparing hand
Some living picture that adorns his land.

If grief permit, of such a picture's fate,
Remember'd well, I will a tale relate:
Near a green lane a gabled dwelling stood,
Time's hand had mellow'd brickwork, stone, and wood;
Its site secluded,—thence the name it took,—
Who once had seen it ne'er forgot "The Nook;"
It pass'd to one who gave it not a thought,
Nor cared to visit what his purse had bought.

Expert in Stucco and in "Fronts" first rate,
Sad day, when thither, to decide its fate,
A builder came,—and, by the owner sent,
A lawyer too—who knows with what intent?
Save that red tape he to his law bills sticks
What claim had he to meddle with red bricks!
The curtseying housewife greets them with a smile,
The builder eyes contemptuously the pile,
Scans the grey stone-slates which the roof encumber,
The beams unbent beneath their weight of lumber,
Yet, while pretending to survey it o'er,
He doom'd its downfall ere he cross'd its door;
Old houses patch'd will scarce patch up a bill,
New-built they bring much profit to the till.
"Sir, take advice—if you have eyes to see,
Your own opinion will with mine agree.
Take my advice, rebuild it spic and span,
With your permission I will send a plan."
The Lawyer thought he understood the case,
Confirm'd the verdict and condemn'd the place.
"Not long shall such on this estate be seen,
Like parchment-blot it must be scratch'd out clean."
The widow heard them through the open door,
Her eyes were tearful, and her heart was sore;
She look'd at both with an imploring face,
"Spare, spare, good gentles, spare the dear old place!
I love this dwelling for its own old sake,
Still more for his whom Heaven was pleased to take."
They, while the drops fall trickling from her eye,
Their shoulders shrug and bid the dame "Good-bye."

Workmen ere long with axe and hammer came,
Such e'en to them appear'd a deed of shame;
No taint of rot was in the timber found,
As when first morticed all was firm and sound;
Beams hard as iron turn'd the blunted axe,
Blow follows blow ere they their hold relax;
Relentless still, its work destruction plies,
"The Nook" at last a crumbled ruin lies.

Upsprang the new one, as unlike the old
As chalk to cheese is, or as dross to gold;
The roof span flatten'd, and the timbers thin,
Cheerless without, and comfortless within;
No porch projecting, no wide chimnied hall,
No chamfer'd mullion in the nine-inch wall;
Up from the ground it like a mushroom shot,
Our only hope it may as quickly rot!

Worse evil still when Prodigal impairs
His father's home, and blots the name he bears.
Now "waste not want not," few that adage heed,
'Tis haste and waste that to destruction lead.
How many a hearth has Pride with ruin strown!
How many a Hall has luxury o'erthrown!
By reckless Squire or vain unthrifty Dame,
Sunk in oblivion many an honour'd name!
Broad lands by worth or deed of valour won
In line unbroken held from fire to son,
Those acres clutch'd by money-making hand,
Then factories smoke, and poison taints the land.
By speed of railway to excitement stirr'd,
Fast all must travel,—oh that fatal word!
Fast youth, fast age, and frequent at the ball,
Fast girls astound us faster far than all.
Oh youth incautious, take not such to wife,
A giddy partner through the dance of life!
Choose rather one more willing, more expert
To sway the household than to play the flirt,
Clothed with those charms which lastingly endure,
Through weal or woe which changeless love ensure.

Now Country Hall how rarely neighbours fill,
Where'er we gather it is London still!
Each in vain show ambitious to excel,
Each frog, though bursting, to an ox must swell.
Landlords who love and would your country serve,
Wrong not your trust, nor from its duties swerve;
"Live and let live,"—shame, whether small or great,
If self-indulgence burden the estate;
Childless yourself, still he who next succeeds
Claims at your hand whate'er his station needs;
Squire in the Hall, or Monarch on the Throne,
Whate'er man hath he may not call his own.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net