Jesse Cliffe | Page 6

poor fellow! He looks so thin and so pitiful.
Do let him stay, dear grandpapa!"
And John Cobham sat down on the bank, and took the pitying child in
his arms, and kissed and blessed her, and said, that, since she wished it,
Jesse should stay; adding, in a sort of soliloquy, that he hoped she
never would ask him to do what was wrong, for he could refuse her
nothing.
And Jesse--what did he say to these, the first words of kindness that he
had ever heard from human lips? or rather, what did he feel? for
beyond a muttered "Thankye," speak he could not, But gratitude
worked strongly in the poor boy's heart: gratitude!--so new, so

overpowering, and inspired by one so sweet, so lovely, so gentle as his
protectress, as far as he was concerned, all-powerful; and yet a mere
infant whom he might protect as well as serve! It was a strange mixture
of feelings, all good, and all delightful; a stirring of impulses, a
quickening of affections, a striking of chords never touched before.
Substitute the sacred innocence of childhood for the equally sacred
power of virgin purity, and his feelings of affectionate reverence, of
devoted service and submission, much resembled those entertained by
the Satyr towards "the holy shepherdess," in Fletcher's exquisite
drama.*
Our
"Rough thing, who never knew Manners nor smooth humanity,"
could not have spoken nor have thought such words as those of the
satyr; but so far as our English climate and his unfruitful territory might
permit, he put much of the poetry into action. Sluggish of intellect, and
uncouth of demeanour, as the poor lad seemed, it was quite wonderful
how quickly he discovered the several ways in which he might best
please and gratify his youthful benefactress.
* That matchless Pastoral, "The Faithful Shepherdess," is so much less
known than talked of, that subjoin the passage in question. One more
beauti can hardly be found in the wide range of English poetry.
Satyr. Through yon same bending plain That flings his arms down to
the main; And through these thick woods, have I run, Whose depths
have never kiss'd the sun; Since the lusty Spring began, All to please
my master, Pan, Have I trotted without rest To get him fruit; for at a
feast He entertains, this coming night, His paramour, the Syrinx bright.
[He sees Clorin and stands amazed.
But behold a fairer sight! By that heavenly form of thine, Brightest fair,
thou art divine, Sprung from great, immortal race Of the Gods; for in
thy face Shines more awful majesty, Than dull, weak mortality Dare
with misty eyes behold And live! Therefore on this mould Slowly do I

bend my knee, In worship of thy deity. Deign it, goddess, from my
hand To receive whate'er this land, From her fertile womb doth send Of
her choice fruits; and but lend Belief to that the Satyr tells: Fairer by
the famous wells To this present day ne'er grew, Never better nor more
true. Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel whose teeth crack 'em. Deign, oh fairest fair, to take
'em! For these black-eyed Dryope Hath often times commanded me,
With my clasped knee to climb; See how well the lusty time Hath
deck'd their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be
berries for a queen, Some be red, and some be green; These are of that
luscious sweet, The great god Pan himself doth eat; All these, and what
the woods can yield, The hanging mountain, or the field, I freely offer,
and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when,
humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in
a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade. I must go,--I must run
Swifter than the fiery sun.
Clorin. And all my fears go with thee! What greatness or what private
hidden power Is there in me to draw submission From this rude man
and beast? sure I am mortal; The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal: Prick my hand And it will bleed; a fever
shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink
Makes me a-cold. My fear says I am mortal. Yet I hare heard (my
mother told it me, And now I do believe it) if I keep My virgin flower
uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power, that haunts the groves, Shall hurt my body, or by
vain illusion Draw me to wander after idle fires, Or voices calling me