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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8912.txt b/8912.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b74fa89 --- /dev/null +++ b/8912.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4565 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 +Vol. 2, by William Wordsworth +#5 in our series by William Wordsworth + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Vol. 2 + +Author: William Wordsworth + +Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8912] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on August 24, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS, VOL. 2 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince and the DP Team + + + + +LYRICAL BALLADS + +WITH OTHER POEMS. + +1800 + +IN TWO VOLUMES. + +By W. WORDSWORTH. + + + Quam hihil ad genium, Papiniane, tuum! + + +VOL. II. + + +CONTENTS + + Hart-leap Well + There was a Boy, &c + The Brothers, a Pastoral Poem + Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle + Strange fits of passion I have known, &c. + Song + A slumber did my spirit seal, &c + The Waterfall and the Eglantine + The Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral + Lucy Gray + The Idle Shepherd-Boys or Dungeon-Gill Force, a Pastoral + 'Tis said that some have died for love, &c. + Poor Susan + Inscription for the Spot where the Hermitage stood + on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water + Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the Island at Grasmere + To a Sexton + Andrew Jones + The two Thieves, or the last stage of Avarice + A whirl-blast from behind the Hill, &c. + Song for the wandering Jew + Ruth + Lines written with a Slate-Pencil upon a Stone, &c. + Lines written on a Tablet in a School + The two April Mornings + The Fountain, a conversation + Nutting + Three years she grew in sun and shower, &c. + The Pet-Lamb, a Pastoral + Written in Germany on one of the coldest days of the century + The Childless Father + The Old Cumberland Beggar, a Description + Rural Architecture + A Poet's Epitaph + A Character + A Fragment + Poems on the Naming of Places, + Michael, a Pastoral + Notes to the Poem of The Brothers + Notes to the Poem of Michael + + + + +HART-LEAP WELL + +Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from +Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads +from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, +the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the +second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I +have there described them. + + + The Knight had ridden down from Wensley moor + With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; + He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door, + And, "Bring another Horse!" he cried aloud. + + "Another Horse!"--That shout the Vassal heard, + And saddled his best steed, a comely Grey; + Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third + Which he had mounted on that glorious day. + + Joy sparkeled in the prancing Courser's eyes; + The horse and horsemen are a happy pair; + But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, + There is a doleful silence in the air. + + A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, + That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar; + But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all; + Such race, I think, was never seen before. + + Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, + Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: + Brach, Swift and Music, noblest of their kind, + Follow, and weary up the mountain strain. + + The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd them on + With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; + But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one, + The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. + + Where is the throng, the tumult of the chace? + The bugles that so joyfully were blown? + --This race it looks not like an earthly race; + Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. + + The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; + I will not stop to tell how far he fled, + Nor will I mention by what death he died; + But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. + + Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn; + He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: + He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn, + But gaz'd upon the spoil with silent joy. + + Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd, + Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; + Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd, + And foaming like a mountain cataract. + + Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd: + His nose half-touch'd a spring beneath a hill, + And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd + The waters of the spring were trembling still. + + And now, too happy for repose or rest, + Was never man in such a joyful case, + Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south and west, + And gaz'd, and gaz'd upon that darling place. + + And turning up the hill, it was at least + Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found + Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast + Had left imprinted on the verdant ground. + + Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now + Such sight was never seen by living eyes: + Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, + Down to the very fountain where he lies." + + I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, + And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; + Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, + A place of love for damsels that are coy. + + A cunning Artist will I have to frame + A bason for that fountain in the dell; + And they, who do make mention of the same, + From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. + + And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known, + Another monument shall here be rais'd; + Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone, + And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graz'd. + + And in the summer-time when days are long, + I will come hither with my paramour, + And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song, + We will make merry in that pleasant bower. + + Till the foundations of the mountains fail + My mansion with its arbour shall endure, + --The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, + And them who dwell among the woods of Ure. + + Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, + With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. + And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said, + The fame whereof through many a land did ring. + + Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd, + A cup of stone receiv'd the living well; + Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, + And built a house of pleasure in the dell. + + And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall + With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd, + Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, + A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. + + And thither, when the summer days were long, + Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour; + And with the dancers and the minstrel's song + Made merriment within that pleasant bower. + + The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, + And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-- + But there is matter for a second rhyme, + And I to this would add another tale. + + + +_PART SECOND_. + + The moving accident is not my trade. + To curl the blood I have no ready arts; + 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, + To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts, + + As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, + It chanc'd that I saw standing in a dell + Three aspins at three corners of a square, + And one, not four yards distant, near a well. + + What this imported I could ill divine, + And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, + I saw three pillars standing in a line, + The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top. + + The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; + Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green; + So that you just might say, as then I said, + "Here in old time the hand of man has been." + + I look'd upon the hills both far and near; + More doleful place did never eye survey; + It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here, + And Nature here were willing to decay. + + I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, + When one who was in Shepherd's garb attir'd, + Came up the hollow. Him did I accost, + And what this place might be I then inquir'd. + + The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told + Which in my former rhyme I have rehears'd. + "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old, + But something ails it now; the spot is curs'd." + + You see these lifeless stumps of aspin wood, + Some say that they are beeches, others elms, + These were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood, + The finest palace of a hundred realms. + + The arbour does its own condition tell, + You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream, + But as to the great Lodge, you might as well + Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. + + There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, + Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; + And, oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, + This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. + + Some say that here a murder has been done, + And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, + I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, + That it was all for that unhappy Hart. + + What thoughts must through the creature's brain have pass'd! + To this place from the stone upon the steep + Are but three bounds, and look, Sir, at this last! + O Master! it has been a cruel leap. + + For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; + And in my simple mind we cannot tell + What cause the Hart might have to love this place, + And come and make his death-bed near the well. + + Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, + Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide; + This water was perhaps the first he drank + When he had wander'd from his mother's side. + + In April here beneath the scented thorn + He heard the birds their morning carols sing, + And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born + Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. + + But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade; + The sun on drearier hollow never shone: + So will it be, as I have often said, + Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone. + + Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; + Small difference lies between thy creed and mine; + This beast not unobserv'd by Nature fell, + His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine. + + The Being, that is in the clouds and air, + That is in the green leaves among the groves. + Maintains a deep and reverential care + For them the quiet creatures whom he loves. + + The Pleasure-house is dust:--behind, before, + This, is no common waste, no common gloom; + But Nature, in due course of time, once more + Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. + + She leaves these objects to a slow decay + That what we are, and have been, may be known; + But, at the coming of the milder day, + These monuments shall all be overgrown. + + One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, + Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, + Never to blend our pleasure or our pride + With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. + + + + There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs + And Islands of Winander! many a time, + At evening, when the stars had just begun + To move along the edges of the hills, + Rising or setting, would he stand alone, + Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake, + And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands + Press'd closely palm to palm and to his mouth + Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, + Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls + That they might answer him. And they would shout + Across the wat'ry vale and shout again + Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, + And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud + Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene + + Of mirth and jocund din. And, when it chanced + That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill, + Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung + Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize + Has carried far into his heart the voice + Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene + Would enter unawares into his mind + With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, + Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd + Into the bosom of the steady lake. + + Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, + The vale where he was born: the Church-yard hangs + Upon a slope above the village school, + And there along that bank when I have pass'd + At evening, I believe, that near his grave + A full half-hour together I have stood, + Mute--for he died when he was ten years old. + + + + +THE + +BROTHERS, + +A PASTORAL POEM. + + +The BROTHERS. [1] + +[Footnote 1: This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a +series of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains +of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise for the +abruptness with which the poem begins.] + + + + These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live + A profitable life: some glance along + Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air. + And they were butterflies to wheel about + Long as their summer lasted; some, as wise, + Upon the forehead of a jutting crag + Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their knee, + And look and scribble, scribble on and look, + Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, + Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. + But, for that moping son of Idleness + Why can he tarry _yonder_?--In our church-yard + Is neither epitaph nor monument, + Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread. + And a few natural graves. To Jane, his Wife, + Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. + It was a July evening, and he sate + Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves + Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day, + Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone + His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool, + While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glittering wire, + He fed the spindle of his youngest child, + Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open air + With back and forward steps. Towards the field + In which the parish chapel stood alone, + Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, + While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent + Many a long look of wonder, and at last, + Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge + Of carded wool--which the old Man had piled + He laid his implements with gentle care, + Each in the other lock'd; and, down the path + Which from his cottage to the church-yard led, + He took his way, impatient to accost + The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. + + 'Twas one well known to him in former days, + A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year + Had chang'd his calling, with the mariners + A fellow-mariner, and so had fared + Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear'd + Among the mountains, and he in his heart + Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. + Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard + The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds + Of caves and trees; and when the regular wind + Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail + And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, + Lengthening invisibly its weary line + Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours + Of tiresome indolence would often hang + Over the vessel's aide, and gaze and gaze, + And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam + Flash'd round him images and hues, that wrought + In union with the employment of his heart, + He, thus by feverish passion overcome, + Even with the organs of his bodily eye, + Below him, in the bosom of the deep + Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz'd + On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, + And Shepherds clad in the same country grey + Which he himself had worn. [2] + +[Footnote 2: This description of the Calenture is sketched from an +imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, +Author of the Hurricane.] + + And now at length, + From perils manifold, with some small wealth + Acquir'd by traffic in the Indian Isles, + To his paternal home he is return'd, + With a determin'd purpose to resume + The life which he liv'd there, both for the sake + Of many darling pleasures, and the love + Which to an only brother he has borne + In all his hardships, since that happy time + When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two + Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. + --They were the last of all their race; and now, + When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart + Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire + Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov'd, + Towards the church-yard he had turn'd aside, + That, as he knew in what particular spot + His family were laid, he thence might learn + If still his Brother liv'd, or to the file + Another grave was added.--He had found + Another grave, near which a full half hour + He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew + Such a confusion in his memory, + That he began to doubt, and he had hopes + That he had seen this heap of turf before, + That it was not another grave, but one, + He had forgotten. He had lost his path, + As up the vale he came that afternoon, + Through fields which once had been well known to him. + And Oh! what joy the recollection now + Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes, + And looking round he thought that he perceiv'd + Strange alteration wrought on every side + Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, + And the eternal hills, themselves were chang'd. + + By this the Priest who down the field had come + Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate + Stopp'd short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb + He scann'd him with a gay complacency. + Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself; + 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path + Of the world's business, to go wild alone: + His arms have a perpetual holiday, + The happy man will creep about the fields + Following his fancies by the hour, to bring + Tears down his check, or solitary smiles + Into his face, until the setting sun + Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus + Beneath a shed that overarch'd the gate + Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd + The good man might have commun'd with himself + But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, + Approach'd; he recogniz'd the Priest at once, + And after greetings interchang'd, and given + By Leonard to the Vicar as to one + Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. + + LEONARD. + + You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life: + Your years make up one peaceful family; + And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come + And welcome gone, they are so like each other, + They cannot be remember'd. Scarce a funeral + Comes to this church-yard once, in eighteen months; + And yet, some changes must take place among you. + And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks + Can trace the finger of mortality, + And see, that with our threescore years and ten + We are not all that perish.--I remember, + For many years ago I pass'd this road, + There was a foot-way all along the fields + By the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft! + To me it does not seem to wear the face + Which then it had. + + PRIEST. + + Why, Sir, for aught I know, + That chasm is much the same-- + + LEONARD. + + But, surely, yonder-- + PRIEST. + + Aye, there indeed, your memory is a friend + That does not play you false.--On that tall pike, + (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) + There were two Springs which bubbled side by side, + As if they had been made that they might be + Companions for each other: ten years back, + Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag + Was rent with lightning--one is dead and gone, + The other, left behind, is flowing still.-- + For accidents and changes such as these, + Why we have store of them! a water-spout + Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast + For folks that wander up and down like you, + To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff + One roaring cataract--a sharp May storm + Will come with loads of January snow, + And in one night send twenty score of sheep + To feed the ravens, or a Shepherd dies + By some untoward death among the rocks: + The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge-- + A wood is fell'd:--and then for our own homes! + A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, + A daughter sent to service, a web spun, + The old house cloth is deck'd with a new face; + And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates + To chronicle the time, we all have here + A pair of diaries, one serving, Sir, + For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side, + Your's was a stranger's judgment: for historians + Commend me to these vallies. + + LEONARD. + + Yet your church-yard + Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, + To say that you are heedless of the past. + Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, + Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state + Or emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home + Is but a fellow to that pasture field. + + PRIEST. + + Why there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me. + The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread + If every English church-yard were like ours: + Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth. + + We have no need of names and epitaphs, + We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. + And then for our immortal part, _we_ want + No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale: + The thought of death sits easy on the man + Who has been born and dies among the mountains: + + LEONARD. + + Your dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts + Possess a kind of second life: no doubt + You, Sir, could help me to the history + Of half these Graves? + + PRIEST. + + With what I've witness'd; and with what I've heard, + Perhaps I might, and, on a winter's evening, + If you were seated at my chimney's nook + By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, + We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round, + Yet all in the broad high-way of the world. + Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it, + It looks just like the rest, and yet that man + Died broken-hearted. + + LEONARD. + + 'Tis a common case, + We'll take another: who is he that lies + Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves;-- + It touches on that piece of native rock + Left in the church-yard wall. + + PRIEST. + + That's Walter Ewbank. + He had as white a head and fresh a cheek + As ever were produc'd by youth and age + Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. + For five long generations had the heart + Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds + Of their inheritance, that single cottage, + You see it yonder, and those few green fields. + They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire to son, + Each struggled, and each yielded as before + A little--yet a little--and old Walter, + They left to him the family heart, and land + With other burthens than the crop it bore. + Year after year the old man still preserv'd + A chearful mind, and buffeted with bond, + Interest and mortgages; at last he sank, + And went into his grave before his time. + Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurr'd him + God only knows, but to the very last + He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: + His pace was never that of an old man: + I almost see him tripping down the path + With his two Grandsons after him--but you, + Unless our Landlord be your host to-night, + Have far to travel, and in these rough paths + Even in the longest day of midsummer-- + + LEONARD. + + But these two Orphans! + + PRIEST. + + Orphans! such they were-- + Yet not while Walter liv'd--for, though their Parents + Lay buried side by side as now they lie, + The old Man was a father to the boys, + Two fathers in one father: and if tears + Shed, when he talk'd of them where they were not, + And hauntings from the infirmity of love, + Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, + This old Man in the day of his old age + Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir, + To hear a stranger talking about strangers, + Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred! + Aye. You may turn that way--it is a grave + Which will bear looking at. + + LEONARD. + + These Boys I hope + They lov'd this good old Man-- + + PRIEST. + + They did--and truly, + But that was what we almost overlook'd, + They were such darlings of each other. For + Though from their cradles they had liv'd with Walter, + The only kinsman near them in the house, + Yet he being old, they had much love to spare, + And it all went into each other's hearts. + Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, + Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, + To hear, to meet them! from their house the School + Was distant three short miles, and in the time + Of storm and thaw, when every water-course + And unbridg'd stream, such as you may have notic'd + Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, + Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, + Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps + Remain'd at home, go staggering through the fords + Bearing his Brother on his back.--I've seen him, + On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, + Aye, more than once I've seen him mid-leg deep, + Their two books lying both on a dry stone + Upon the hither side:--and once I said, + As I remember, looking round these rocks + And hills on which we all of us were born, + That God who made the great book of the world + Would bless such piety-- + + LEONARD. + + It may be then-- + + PRIEST. + + Never did worthier lads break English bread: + The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, + With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, + Could never keep these boys away from church, + Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. + Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner + Among these rocks and every hollow place + Where foot could come, to one or both of them + Was known as well as to the flowers that grew there. + Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills: + They play'd like two young ravens on the crags: + Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well + As many of their betters--and for Leonard! + The very night before he went away, + In my own house I put into his hand + A Bible, and I'd wager twenty pounds, + That, if he is alive, he has it yet. + + LEONARD. + + It seems, these Brothers have not liv'd to be + A comfort to each other.-- + + PRIEST. + + That they might + Live to that end, is what both old and young + In this our valley all of us have wish'd, + And what, for my part, I have often pray'd: + But Leonard-- + + LEONARD. + + Then James still is left among you-- + + PRIEST. + + 'Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking: + They had an Uncle, he was at that time + A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas: + And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour + Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. + For the Boy lov'd the life which we lead here; + And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old; + His soul was knit to this his native soil. + But, as I said, old Walter was too weak + To strive with such a torrent; when he died, + The estate and house were sold, and all their sheep, + A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, + Had clothed the Ewbauks for a thousand years. + Well--all was gone, and they were destitute. + And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, + Resolv'd to try his fortune on the seas. + 'Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him. + If there was one among us who had heard + That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, + From the great Gavel [3], down by Leeza's Banks, + And down the Enna, far as Egremont, + The day would be a very festival, + And those two bells of ours, which there you see + Hanging in the open air--but, O good Sir! + This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him + Living or dead--When last we heard of him + He was in slavery among the Moors + Upon the Barbary Coast--'Twas not a little + That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt, + Before it ended in his death, the Lad + Was sadly cross'd--Poor Leonard! when we parted, + He took me by the hand and said to me, + If ever the day came when he was rich, + He would return, and on his Father's Land + He would grow old among us. + +[Footnote 3: The great Gavel, so called I imagine, from its +resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of +the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales +of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale. + +The Leeza is a River which follows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on +issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, +Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont.] + + LEONARD. + + If that day + Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; + He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then + As any that should meet him-- + + PRIEST. + Happy, Sir-- + + LEONARD. + + You said his kindred all were in their graves, + And that he had one Brother-- + + PRIEST. + That is but + A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth + James, though not sickly, yet was delicate, + And Leonard being always by his side + Had done so many offices about him, + That, though he was not of a timid nature, + Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy + In him was somewhat check'd, and when his Brother + Was gone to sea and he was left alone + The little colour that he had was soon + Stolen from his cheek, he droop'd, and pin'd and pin'd; + + LEONARD. + + But these are all the graves of full grown men! + + PRIEST. + + Aye, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us. + He was the child of all the dale--he liv'd + Three months with one, and six months with another: + And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love, + And many, many happy days were his. + But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief + His absent Brother still was at his heart. + And, when he liv'd beneath our roof, we found + (A practice till this time unknown to him) + That often, rising from his bed at night, + He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping + He sought his Brother Leonard--You are mov'd! + Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you, + I judg'd you most unkindly. + + LEONARD. + + But this youth, + How did he die at last? + + PRIEST. + + One sweet May morning, + It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns, + He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, + With two or three companions whom it chanc'd + Some further business summon'd to a house + Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir'd perhaps, + Or from some other cause remain'd behind. + You see yon precipice--it almost looks + Like some vast building made of many crags, + And in the midst is one particular rock + That rises like a column from the vale, + Whence by our Shepherds it is call'd, the Pillar. + James, pointing to its summit, over which + They all had purpos'd to return together, + Inform'd them that he there would wait for them: + They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way + Some two hours after, but they did not find him + At the appointed place, a circumstance + Of which they took no heed: but one of them, + Going by chance, at night, into the house + Which at this time was James's home, there learn'd + That nobody had seen him all that day: + The morning came, and still, he was unheard of: + The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the Brook + Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere noon + They found him at the foot of that same Rock + Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after + I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies. + + LEONARD. + + And that then _is_ his grave!--Before his death + You said that he saw many happy years? + + PRIEST. + + Aye, that he did-- + + LEONARD. + + And all went well with him-- + + PRIEST. + + If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes. + + LEONARD. + + And you believe then, that his mind was easy-- + + PRIEST. + + Yes, long before he died, he found that time + Is a true friend to sorrow, and unless + His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune, + He talk'd about him with a chearful love. + + LEONARD. + + He could not come to an unhallow'd end! + + PRIEST. + + Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention'd + A habit which disquietude and grief + Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur'd + That, as the day was warm, he had lain down + Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades + He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep + He to the margin of the precipice + Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen head-long, + And so no doubt he perish'd: at the time, + We guess, that in his hands he must have had + His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff + It had been caught, and there for many years + It hung--and moulder'd there. + + The Priest here ended-- + The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt + Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence, + And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate, + As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, + And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother." + The Vicar did not hear the words: and now, + Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated + That Leonard would partake his homely fare: + The other thank'd him with a fervent voice, + But added, that, the evening being calm, + He would pursue his journey. So they parted. + + It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove + That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, + And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd + All that the Priest had said: his early years + Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes, + And thoughts which had been his an hour before. + All press'd on him with such a weight, that now, + This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd + A place in which he could not bear to live: + So he relinquish'd all his purposes. + He travell'd on to Egremont; and thence, + That night, address'd a letter to the Priest + Reminding him of what had pass'd between them. + And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, + That it was from the weakness of his heart, + He had not dared to tell him, who he was. + + This done, he went on shipboard, and is now + A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner. + + + + +_ELLEN IRWIN, + Or the BRAES of KIRTLE_. [4] + +[Footnote 4: The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, +on whose banks the events here related took place.] + + + + + Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate + Upon the Braes of Kirtle, + Was lovely as a Grecian Maid + Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle. + Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, + And there did they beguile the day + With love and gentle speeches, + Beneath the budding beeches. + + From many Knights and many Squires + The Brace had been selected, + And Gordon, fairest of them all, + By Ellen was rejected. + Sad tidings to that noble Youth! + For it may be proclaim'd with truth, + If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely, + The Gordon loves as dearly. + + But what is Gordon's beauteous face? + And what are Gordon's crosses + To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes + Upon the verdant mosses? + Alas that ever he was born! + The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn, + Sees them and their caressing, + Beholds them bless'd and blessing. + + Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts + That through his brain are travelling, + And, starting up, to Bruce's heart + He launch'd a deadly jav'lin! + Fair Ellen saw it when it came, + And, stepping forth to meet the same, + Did with her body cover + The Youth her chosen lover. + + And, falling into Bruce's arms, + Thus died the beauteous Ellen, + Thus from the heart of her true-love + The mortal spear repelling. + And Bruce, as soon as he had slain + The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain, + And fought with rage incessant + Against the Moorish Crescent. + + But many days and many months, + And many years ensuing, + This wretched Knight did vainly seek + The death that he was wooing: + So coming back across the wave, + Without a groan on Ellen's grave + His body he extended, + And there his sorrow ended. + + Now ye who willingly have heard + The tale I have been telling, + May in Kirkonnel church-yard view + The grave of lovely Ellen: + By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid, + And, for the stone upon his head, + May no rude hand deface it, + And its forlorn 'Hic jacet'. + + + + + + + Strange fits of passion I have known, + And I will dare to tell, + But in the lover's ear alone, + What once to me befel. + + When she I lov'd, was strong and gay + And like a rose in June, + I to her cottage bent my way, + Beneath the evening moon. + + Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, + All over the wide lea; + My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh + Those paths so dear to me. + + And now we reach'd the orchard plot, + And, as we climb'd the hill, + Towards the roof of Lucy's cot + The moon descended still. + + In one of those sweet dreams I slept, + Kind Nature's gentlest boon! + And, all the while, my eyes I kept + On the descending moon. + + My horse mov'd on; hoof after hoof + He rais'd and never stopp'd: + When down behind the cottage roof + At once the planet dropp'd. + + What fond and wayward thoughts will slide + Into a Lover's head-- + "O mercy!" to myself I cried, + "If Lucy should be dead!" + + + + + +SONG. + + + + She dwelt among th' untrodden ways + Beside the springs of Dove, + A Maid whom there were none to praise + And very few to love. + + A Violet by a mossy stone + Half-hidden from the Eye! + --Fair, as a star when only one + Is shining in the sky! + + She _liv'd_ unknown, and few could know + When Lucy ceas'd to be; + But she is in her Grave, and Oh! + The difference to me. + + + + + + A slumber did my spirit seal, + I had no human fears: + She seem'd a thing that could not feel + The touch of earthly years. + + No motion has she now, no force + She neither hears nor sees + Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course + With rocks and stones and trees! + + + + + +_The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE_. + + + "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, + Exclaim'd a thundering Voice, + Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self + Between me and my choice!" + A falling Water swoln with snows + Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, + That all bespatter'd with his foam, + And dancing high, and dancing low, + Was living, as a child might know, + In an unhappy home. + + "Dost thou presume my course to block? + Off, off! or, puny Thing! + I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock + To which thy fibres cling." + The Flood was tyrannous and strong; + The patient Briar suffer'd long, + Nor did he utter groan or sigh, + Hoping the danger would be pass'd: + But seeing no relief, at last + He venture'd to reply. + + "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not! + Why should we dwell in strife? + We who in this, our natal spot, + Once liv'd a happy life! + You stirr'd me on my rocky bed-- + What pleasure thro' my veins you spread! + The Summer long from day to day + My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; + Nor was it common gratitude + That did your cares repay." + + When Spring came on with bud and bell, + Among these rocks did I + Before you hang my wreath to tell + That gentle days were nigh! + And in the sultry summer hours + I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers; + And in my leaves now shed and gone + The linnet lodg'd and for us two + Chaunted his pretty songs when you + Had little voice or none. + + But now proud thoughts are in your breast-- + What grief is mine you see. + Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest + Together we might be! + Though of both leaf and flower bereft, + Some ornaments to me are left-- + Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, + With which I in my humble way + Would deck you many a Winter's day, + A happy Eglantine! + + What more he said, I cannot tell. + The stream came thundering down the dell + And gallop'd loud and fast; + I listen'd, nor aught else could hear, + The Briar quak'd and much I fear. + Those accents were his last. + + + + + + +The OAK and the BROOM, + +A PASTORAL. + + + His simple truths did Andrew glean + Beside the babbling rills; + A careful student he had been + Among the woods and hills. + One winter's night when through the Trees + The wind was thundering, on his knees + His youngest born did Andrew hold: + And while the rest, a ruddy quire + Were seated round their blazing fire, + This Tale the Shepherd told. + + I saw a crag, a lofty stone + As ever tempest beat! + Out of its head an Oak had grown, + A Broom out of its feet. + The time was March, a chearful noon-- + The thaw-wind with the breath of June + Breath'd gently from the warm South-west; + When in a voice sedate with age + This Oak, half giant and half sage, + His neighbour thus address'd. + + "Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, + Along this mountain's edge + The Frost hath wrought both night and day, + Wedge driving after wedge. + Look up, and think, above your head + What trouble surely will be bred; + Last night I heard a crash--'tis true, + The splinters took another road-- + I see them yonder--what a load + For such a Thing as you!" + + You are preparing as before + To deck your slender shape; + And yet, just three years back--no more-- + You had a strange escape. + Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke, + It came, you know, with fire and smoke + And hither did it bend its way. + This pond'rous block was caught by me, + And o'er your head, as you may see, + 'Tis hanging to this day. + + The Thing had better been asleep, + Whatever thing it were, + Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep, + That first did plant you there. + For you and your green twigs decoy + The little witless Shepherd-boy + To come and slumber in your bower; + And trust me, on some sultry noon, + Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! + Will perish in one hour. + + "From me this friendly warning take"-- + --The Broom began to doze, + And thus to keep herself awake + Did gently interpose. + "My thanks for your discourse are due; + That it is true, and more than true, + I know and I have known it long; + Frail is the bond, by which we hold + Our being, be we young or old, + Wise, foolish, weak or strong." + + Disasters, do the best we can, + Will reach both great and small; + And he is oft the wisest man, + Who is not wise at all. + For me, why should I wish to roam? + This spot is my paternal home, + It is my pleasant Heritage; + My Father many a happy year + Here spread his careless blossoms, here + Attain'd a good old age. + + Even such as his may be may lot. + What cause have I to haunt + My heart with terrors? Am I not + In truth a favor'd plant! + The Spring for me a garland weaves + Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, + And, when the Frost is in the sky, + My branches are so fresh and gay + That You might look on me and say + This plant can never die. + + The butterfly, all green and gold, + To me hath often flown, + Here in my Blossoms to behold + Wings lovely as his own. + When grass is chill with rain or dew, + Beneath my shade the mother ewe + Lies with her infant lamb; I see + The love, they to each other make, + And the sweet joy, which they partake, + It is a joy to me. + + Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; + The Broom might have pursued + Her speech, until the stars of night + Their journey had renew'd. + But in the branches of the Oak + Two Ravens now began to croak + Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; + And to her own green bower the breeze + That instant brought two stripling Bees + To feed and murmur there. + + One night the Wind came from the North + And blew a furious blast, + At break of day I ventur'd forth + And near the Cliff I pass'd. + The storm had fall'n upon the Oak + And struck him with a mighty stroke, + And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away; + And in one hospitable Cleft + The little careless Broom was left + To live for many a day. + + + + + +LUCY GRAY. + + + Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, + And when I cross'd the Wild, + I chanc'd to see at break of day + The solitary Child. + + No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; + She dwelt on a wild Moor, + The sweetest Thing that ever grew + Beside a human door! + + You yet may spy the Fawn at play, + The Hare upon the Green; + But the sweet face of Lucy Gray + Will never more be seen. + + "To-night will be a stormy night, + You to the Town must go, + And take a lantern, Child, to light + Your Mother thro' the snow." + + "That, Father! will I gladly do; + 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- + The Minster-clock has just struck two, + And yonder is the Moon." + + At this the Father rais'd his hook + And snapp'd a faggot-band; + He plied his work, and Lucy took + The lantern in her hand. + + Not blither is the mountain roe, + With many a wanton stroke + Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow + That rises up like smoke. + + The storm came on before its time, + She wander'd up and down, + And many a hill did Lucy climb + But never reach'd the Town. + + The wretched Parents all that night + Went shouting far and wide; + But there was neither sound nor sight + To serve them for a guide. + + At day-break on a hill they stood + That overlook'd the Moor; + And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood + A furlong from their door. + + And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd + "In Heaven we all shall meet!" + When in the snow the Mother spied + The print of Lucy's feet. + + Then downward from the steep hill's edge + They track'd the footmarks small; + And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, + And by the long stone-wall; + + And then an open field they cross'd, + The marks were still the same; + They track'd them on, nor ever lost, + And to the Bridge they came. + + They follow'd from the snowy bank + The footmarks, one by one, + Into the middle of the plank, + And further there were none. + + Yet some maintain that to this day + She is a living Child, + That you may see sweet Lucy Gray + Upon the lonesome Wild. + + O'er rough and smooth she trips along, + And never looks behind; + And sings a solitary song + That whistles in the wind. + + + +_The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS_, + +OR + +_DUNGEON-GILL FORCE_, [5] + _A PASTORAL_. + +[Footnote 5: 'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, +is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream +running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these +dialects for Waterfall.] + + + + + I. + + The valley rings with mirth and joy, + Among the hills the Echoes play + A never, never ending song + To welcome in the May. + The Magpie chatters with delight; + + The mountain Raven's youngling Brood + Have left the Mother and the Nest, + And they go rambling east and west + In search of their own food, + Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart + In very wantonness of Heart. + + + II. + + Beneath a rock, upon the grass, + Two Boys are sitting in the sun; + It seems they have no work to do + Or that their work is done. + On pipes of sycamore they play + The fragments of a Christmas Hymn, + Or with that plant which in our dale + We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail + Their rusty Hats they trim: + And thus as happy as the Day, + Those Shepherds wear the time away. + + + + III. + + Along the river's stony marge + The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song; + The thrush is busy in the Wood, + And carols loud and strong. + A thousand lambs are on the rocks, + All newly born! both earth and sky + Keep jubilee, and more than all, + Those Boys with their green Coronal, + They never hear the cry, + That plaintive cry! which up the hill + Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill. + + + IV. + + Said Walter, leaping from the ground, + "Down to the stump of yon old yew + I'll run with you a race."--No more-- + Away the Shepherds flew. + They leapt, they ran, and when they came + Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill, + Seeing, that he should lose the prize, + "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries-- + James stopp'd with no good will: + Said Walter then, "Your task is here, + 'Twill keep you working half a year." + + + V. + + "Till you have cross'd where I shall cross, + Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat." + James proudly took him at his word, + But did not like the feat. + It was a spot, which you may see + If ever you to Langdale go: + Into a chasm a mighty Block + Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock; + The gulph is deep below, + And in a bason black and small + Receives a lofty Waterfall. + + + VI. + + With staff in hand across the cleft + The Challenger began his march; + And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd + The middle of the arch. + When list! he hears a piteous moan-- + Again! his heart within him dies-- + His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost, + He totters, pale as any ghost, + And, looking down, he spies + A Lamb, that in the pool is pent + Within that black and frightful rent. + + + VII. + + The Lamb had slipp'd into the stream, + And safe without a bruise or wound + The Cataract had borne him down + Into the gulph profound, + His dam had seen him when he fell, + She saw him down the torrent borne; + And while with all a mother's love + She from the lofty rocks above + Sent forth a cry forlorn, + The Lamb, still swimming round and round + Made answer to that plaintive sound. + + + VIII. + + When he had learnt, what thing it was, + That sent this rueful cry; I ween, + The Boy recover'd heart, and told + The sight which he had seen. + Both gladly now deferr'd their task; + Nor was there wanting other aid-- + A Poet, one who loves the brooks + Far better than the sages' books, + By chance had thither stray'd; + And there the helpless Lamb he found + By those huge rocks encompass'd round. + + + IX. + + He drew it gently from the pool, + And brought it forth into the light; + The Shepherds met him with his charge + An unexpected sight! + Into their arms the Lamb they took, + Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"-- + Then up the steep ascent they hied + And placed him at his Mother's side; + And gently did the Bard + Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, + And bade them better mind their trade. + + 'Tis said, that some have died for love: + And here and there a church-yard grave is found + In the cold North's unhallow'd ground, + Because the wretched man himself had slain, + His love was such a grievous pain. + And there is one whom I five years have known; + He dwells alone + Upon Helvellyn's side. + He loved--The pretty Barbara died, + And thus he makes his moan: + Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid + When thus his moan he made. + + Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak + Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, + That in some other way yon smoke + May mount into the sky! + The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart: + I look--the sky is empty space; + I know not what I trace; + But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. + + O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, + When will that dying murmur be suppress'd? + Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, + It robs my heart of rest. + Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free, + Into yon row of willows flit, + Upon that alder sit; + Or sing another song, or chuse another tree + + Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds, + And there for ever be thy waters chain'd! + For thou dost haunt the air with sounds + That cannot be sustain'd; + If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough + Headlong yon waterfall must come, + Oh let it then be dumb!-- + Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now. + + Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers + (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) + Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, + And stir not in the gale. + For thus to see thee nodding in the air, + To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, + Thus rise and thus descend, + Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear. + + The man who makes this feverish complaint + Is one of giant stature, who could dance + Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail. + Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine + To store up kindred hours for me, thy face + Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk + Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know + Such happiness as I have known to-day. + + + + + +POOR SUSAN. + + + + At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, + There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: + Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard + In the silence of morning the song of the bird. + + 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees + A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; + Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, + And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. + + Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, + Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail, + And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's, + The only one dwelling on earth that she loves. + + She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, + The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; + The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, + And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes. + + Poor Outcast! return--to receive thee once more + The house of thy Father will open its door, + And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, + May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. + + + + + +INSCRIPTION + _For the Spot where the_ HERMITAGE _stood + on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water_. + + + If thou in the dear love of some one friend + Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts + Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love + Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence + This quiet spot.--St. Herbert hither came + And here, for many seasons, from the world + Remov'd, and the affections of the world + He dwelt in solitude. He living here, + This island's sole inhabitant! had left + A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd + As his own soul; and when within his cave + Alone he knelt before the crucifix + While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore + Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd + Along the beach of this small isle and thought + Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both + Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain + So pray'd he:--as our Chronicles report, + Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, + Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, + Those holy men both died in the same hour. + + + + + +_INSCRIPTION + For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere_. + + + Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen + Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd + Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd + To somewhat of a closer fellowship + With the ideal grace. Yet as it is + Do take it in good part; for he, the poor + Vitruvius of our village, had no help + From the great city; never on the leaves + Of red Morocco folio saw display'd + The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts + Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, + Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. + It is a homely pile, yet to these walls + The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here + The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind. + + And hither does one Poet sometimes row + His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled + With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern, + A lading which he with his sickle cuts + Among the mountains, and beneath this roof + He makes his summer couch, and here at noon + Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep + Panting beneath the burthen of their wool + Lie round him, even as if they were a part + Of his own household: nor, while from his bed + He through that door-place looks toward the lake + And to the stirring breezes, does he want + Creations lovely as the work of sleep, + Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy. + + + + + + +_To a SEXTON_. + + + Let thy wheel-barrow alone. + Wherefore, Sexton, piling still + In thy bone-house bone on bone? + Tis already like a hill + In a field of battle made, + Where three thousand skulls are laid. + --These died in peace each with the other, + Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. + + Mark the spot to which I point! + From this platform eight feet square + Take not even a finger-joint: + Andrew's whole fire-side is there. + + Here, alone, before thine eyes, + Simon's sickly Daughter lies + From weakness, now, and pain defended, + Whom he twenty winters tended. + + Look but at the gardener's pride, + How he glories, when he sees + Roses, lilies, side by side, + Violets in families. + + By the heart of Man, his tears, + By his hopes and by his fears, + Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden + Of a far superior garden. + + Thus then, each to other dear, + Let them all in quiet lie, + Andrew there and Susan here, + Neighbours in mortality. + + And should I live through sun and rain + Seven widow'd years without my Jane, + O Sexton, do not then remove her, + Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover! + + + + + + ANDREW JONES. + + + I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed + His children up to waste and pillage. + I wish the press-gang or the drum + With its tantara sound would come, + And sweep him from the village! + + I said not this, because he loves + Through the long day to swear and tipple; + But for the poor dear sake of one + To whom a foul deed he had done, + A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple! + + For this poor crawling helpless wretch + Some Horseman who was passing by, + A penny on the ground had thrown; + But the poor Cripple was alone + And could not stoop--no help was nigh. + + Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground + For it had long been droughty weather: + So with his staff the Cripple wrought + Among the dust till he had brought + The halfpennies together. + + It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way + Just at the time; and there he found + The Cripple in the mid-day heat + Standing alone, and at his feet + He saw the penny on the ground. + + He stopp'd and took the penny up. + And when the Cripple nearer drew, + Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown. + What a man finds is all his own, + And so, my Friend, good day to you." + + And _hence_ I said, that Andrew's boys + Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; + And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum + With its tantara sound, would come + And sweep him from the village! + + + + +_The TWO THIEVES, + Or the last Stage of AVARICE_. + + + Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine + And the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne; + When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose + For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. + + What feats would I work with my magical hand! + Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land + And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls + Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. + + The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair + Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care. + For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, + Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves! + + Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old, + His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told, + There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather + Between them, and both go a stealing together. + + With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? + It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door? + Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide, + And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side. + + Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye + Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly. + 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, + But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. + + Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wires + Of manifold pleasures and many desires: + And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no more + Than treading a path trod by thousands before. + + 'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one + Who went something farther than others have gone; + And now with old Daniel you see how it fares + You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. + + The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun + Has peer'd o'er the beeches their work is begun: + And yet into whatever sin they may fall, + This Child but half knows it and that not at all. + + They hunt through the street with deliberate tread, + And each in his turn is both leader and led; + And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, + Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. + + Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam, + For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home; + Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done, + And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one. + + Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd, + I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side: + Long yet may'st thou live, for a teacher we see + That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. + + A whirl-blast from behind the hill + Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound: + Then all at once the air was still, + And showers of hail-stones patter'd round. + + Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above, + I sate within an undergrove + Of tallest hollies, tall and green, + A fairer bower was never seen. + + From year to year the spacious floor + With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er, + You could not lay a hair between: + And all the year the bower is green. + + But see! where'er the hailstones drop + The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, + There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- + Yet here, and there, and every where + + Along the floor, beneath the shade + By those embowering hollies made, + The leaves in myriads jump and spring, + As if with pipes and music rare + Some Robin Good-fellow were there, + And all those leaves, that jump and spring, + Were each a joyous, living thing. + + Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease + That I may never cease to find, + Even in appearances like these + Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! + + + + + +SONG + +FOR THE + +WANDERING JEW. + + + + Though the torrents from their fountains + Roar down many a craggy steep, + Yet they find among the mountains + Resting-places calm and deep. + + Though almost with eagle pinion + O'er the rocks the Chamois roam. + Yet he has some small dominion + Which no doubt he calls his home. + + If on windy days the Raven + Gambol like a dancing skiff, + Not the less he loves his haven + On the bosom of the cliff. + + Though the Sea-horse in the ocean + Own no dear domestic cave; + Yet he slumbers without motion + On the calm and silent wave. + + Day and night my toils redouble! + Never nearer to the goal, + Night and day, I feel the trouble, + Of the Wanderer in my soul. + + + + +RUTH. + + + +RUTH. + + + + When Ruth was left half desolate, + Her Father took another Mate; + And so, not seven years old, + The slighted Child at her own will + Went wandering over dale and hill + In thoughtless freedom bold. + + And she had made a pipe of straw + And from that oaten pipe could draw + All sounds of winds and floods; + Had built a bower upon the green, + As if she from her birth had been + An Infant of the woods. + + There came a Youth from Georgia's shore, + A military Casque he wore + With splendid feathers drest; + He brought them from the Cherokees; + The feathers nodded in the breeze + And made a gallant crest. + + From Indian blood you deem him sprung: + Ah no! he spake the English tongue + And bare a Soldier's name; + And when America was free + From battle and from jeopardy + He cross the ocean came. + + With hues of genius on his cheek + In finest tones the Youth could speak. + --While he was yet a Boy + The moon, the glory of the sun, + And streams that murmur as they run + Had been his dearest joy. + + He was a lovely Youth! I guess + The panther in the wilderness + Was not so fair as he; + And when he chose to sport and play, + No dolphin ever was so gay + Upon the tropic sea. + + Among the Indians he had fought, + And with him many tales he brought + Of pleasure and of fear, + Such tales as told to any Maid + By such a Youth in the green shade + Were perilous to hear. + + He told of Girls, a happy rout, + Who quit their fold with dance and shout + Their pleasant Indian Town + To gather strawberries all day long, + Returning with a choral song + When day-light is gone down. + + He spake of plants divine and strange + That ev'ry day their blossoms change, + Ten thousand lovely hues! + With budding, fading, faded flowers + They stand the wonder of the bowers + From morn to evening dews. + + He told of the Magnolia, [6] spread + High as a cloud, high over head! + The Cypress and her spire, + Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam [7] + Cover a hundred leagues and seem + To set the hills on fire. + + +[Footnote 6: Magnolia grandiflora.] + +[Footnote 7: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, +which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the +Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram +in his Travels.] + + The Youth of green Savannahs spake, + And many an endless endless lake + With all its fairy crowds + Of islands that together lie + As quietly as spots of sky + Among the evening clouds: + + And then he said "How sweet it were + A fisher or a hunter there, + A gardener in the shade, + Still wandering with an easy mind + To build a household fire and find + A home in every glade." + + "What days and what sweet years! Ah me! + Our life were life indeed, with thee + So pass'd in quiet bliss, + And all the while" said he "to know + That we were in a world of woe. + On such an earth as this!" + + And then he sometimes interwove + Dear thoughts about a Father's love, + "For there," said he, "are spun + Around the heart such tender ties + That our own children to our eyes + Are dearer than the sun." + + Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me + My helpmate in the woods to be, + Our shed at night to rear; + Or run, my own adopted bride, + A sylvan huntress at my side + And drive the flying deer. + + "Beloved Ruth!" No more he said + Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed + A solitary tear, + She thought again--and did agree + With him to sail across the sea, + And drive the flying deer. + + "And now, as fitting is and right, + We in the Church our faith will plight, + A Husband and a Wife." + Even so they did; and I may say + That to sweet Ruth that happy day + Was more than human life. + + Through dream and vision did she sink, + Delighted all the while to think + That on those lonesome floods + And green Savannahs she should share + His board with lawful joy, and bear + His name in the wild woods. + + But, as you have before been told, + This Stripling, sportive gay and bold, + And, with his dancing crest, + So beautiful, through savage lands + Had roam'd about with vagrant bands + Of Indians in the West. + + The wind, the tempest roaring high, + The tumult of a tropic sky + Might well be dangerous food. + For him, a Youth to whom was given + So much of earth so much of Heaven, + And such impetuous blood. + + Whatever in those climes he found + Irregular in sight or sound + Did to his mind impart + A kindred impulse, seem'd allied + To his own powers, and justified + The workings of his heart. + + Nor less to feed voluptuous thought + The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, + Fair trees and lovely flowers; + The breezes their own languor lent, + The stars had feelings which they sent + Into those magic bowers. + + Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween, + That sometimes there did intervene + Pure hopes of high intent: + For passions link'd to forms so fair + And stately, needs must have their share + Of noble sentiment. + + But ill he liv'd, much evil saw + With men to whom no better law + Nor better life was known; + Deliberately and undeceiv'd + Those wild men's vices he receiv'd, + And gave them back his own. + + His genius and his moral frame + Were thus impair'd, and he became + The slave of low desires; + A man who without self-controul + Would seek what the degraded soul + Unworthily admires. + + And yet he with no feign'd delight + Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night + Had luv'd her, night and morn; + What could he less than love a Maid + Whose heart with so much nature play'd + So kind and so forlorn? + + But now the pleasant dream was gone, + No hope, no wish remain'd, not one, + They stirr'd him now no more, + New objects did new pleasure give, + And once again he wish'd to live + As lawless as before. + + Meanwhile as thus with him it fared. + They for the voyage were prepared + And went to the sea-shore, + But, when they thither came, the Youth + Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth + Could never find him more. + + "God help thee Ruth!"--Such pains she had + That she in half a year was mad + And in a prison hous'd, + And there, exulting in her wrongs, + Among the music of her songs + She fearfully carouz'd. + + Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, + Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, + Nor pastimes of the May, + They all were with her in her cell, + And a wild brook with chearful knell + Did o'er the pebbles play. + + When Ruth three seasons thus had lain + There came a respite to her pain, + She from her prison fled; + But of the Vagrant none took thought, + And where it liked her best she sought + Her shelter and her bread. + + Among the fields she breath'd again: + The master-current of her brain + Ran permanent and free, + And to the pleasant Banks of Tone [8] + She took her way, to dwell alone + Under the greenwood tree. + + The engines of her grief, the tools + That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools, + And airs that gently stir + The vernal leaves, she loved them still, + Nor ever tax'd them with the ill + Which had been done to her. + +[Footnote 8: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great +distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to +a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places +richly covered with Coppice woods.] + + A Barn her _winter_ bed supplies, + But till the warmth of summer skies + And summer days is gone, + (And in this tale we all agree) + She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, + And other home hath none. + + If she is press'd by want of food + She from her dwelling in the wood + Repairs to a road side, + And there she begs at one steep place, + Where up and down with easy pace + The horsemen-travellers ride. + + That oaten pipe of hers is mute + Or thrown away, but with a flute + Her loneliness she cheers; + This flute made of a hemlock stalk + At evening in his homeward walk + The Quantock Woodman hears. + + I, too have pass'd her on the hills + Setting her little water-mills + By spouts and fountains wild, + Such small machinery as she turn'd + Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd + A young and happy Child! + + Farewel! and when thy days are told + Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mold + Thy corpse shall buried be, + For thee a funeral bell shall ring, + And all the congregation sing + A Christian psalm for thee. + + + + + +_LINES + Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap + lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale_. + + + Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones + Is not a ruin of the ancient time, + Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn + Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more + Than the rude embryo of a little dome + Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built + Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. + But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd + That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, + And make himself a freeman of this spot + At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith + Desisted, and the quarry and the mound + Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.-- + The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps, + Was once selected as the corner-stone + Of the intended pile, which would have been + Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, + So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, + And other little builders who dwell here, + Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, + For old Sir William was a gentle Knight + Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd + With all his ancestry. Then peace to him + And for the outrage which he had devis'd + Entire forgiveness.--But if thou art one + On fire with thy impatience to become + An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd + By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn + Out of the quiet rock the elements + Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze + In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught + By old Sir William and his quarry, leave + Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose, + There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, + And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone. + + + + + +_In the School of ---- is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt +letters, the names of the federal persons who have been +Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the +time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite +one of those names the Author wrote the following lines_. + + If Nature, for a favorite Child + In thee hath temper'd so her clay, + That every hour thy heart runs wild + Yet never once doth go astray, + + Read o'er these lines; and then review + This tablet, that thus humbly rears + In such diversity of hue + Its history of two hundred years. + + --When through this little wreck of fame, + Cypher and syllable, thine eye + Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, + Pause with no common sympathy. + + And if a sleeping tear should wake + Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd: + For Matthew a request I make + Which for himself he had not made. + + Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, + Is silent as a standing pool, + Far from the chimney's merry roar, + And murmur of the village school. + + The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs + Of one tir'd out with fun and madness; + The tears which came to Matthew's eyes + Were tears of light, the oil of gladness. + + Yet sometimes when the secret cup + Of still and serious thought went round + It seem'd as if he drank it up, + He felt with spirit so profound. + + --Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, + Thou happy soul, and can it be + That these two words of glittering gold + Are all that must remain of thee? + + + + + +The Two April Mornings. + + We walk'd along, while bright and red + Uprose the morning sun, + And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, + "The will of God be done!" + + A village Schoolmaster was he, + With hair of glittering grey; + As blithe a man as you could see + On a spring holiday. + + And on that morning, through the grass, + And by the steaming rills, + We travell'd merrily to pass + A day among the hills. + + "Our work," said I, "was well begun; + Then, from thy breast what thought, + Beneath so beautiful a sun, + So sad a sigh has brought?" + + A second time did Matthew stop, + And fixing still his eye + Upon the eastern mountain-top + To me he made reply. + + Yon cloud with that long purple cleft + Brings fresh into my mind + A day like this which I have left + Full thirty years behind. + + And on that slope of springing corn + The self-same crimson hue + Fell from the sky that April morn, + The same which now I view! + + With rod and line my silent sport + I plied by Derwent's wave, + And, coming to the church, stopp'd short + Beside my Daughter's grave. + + Nine summers had she scarcely seen + The pride of all the vale; + And then she sang!--she would have been + A very nightingale. + + Six feet in earth my Emma lay, + And yet I lov'd her more, + For so it seem'd, than till that day + I e'er had lov'd before. + + And, turning from her grave, I met + Beside the church-yard Yew + A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet + With points of morning dew. + + + + + + +The FOUNTAIN, + _A Conversation_. + + We talk'd with open heart, and tongue + Affectionate and true, + A pair of Friends, though I was young, + And Matthew seventy-two. + + We lay beneath a spreading oak, + Beside a mossy seat, + And from the turf a fountain broke, + And gurgled at our feet. + + Now, Matthew, let us try to match + This water's pleasant tune + With some old Border-song, or catch + That suits a summer's noon. + + Or of the Church-clock and the chimes + Sing here beneath the shade, + That half-mad thing of witty rhymes + Which you last April made! + + On silence Matthew lay, and eyed + The spring beneath the tree; + And thus the dear old Man replied, + The grey-hair'd Man of glee. + + "Down to the vale this water steers, + How merrily it goes! + Twill murmur on a thousand years, + And flow as now it flows." + + And here, on this delightful day, + I cannot chuse but think + How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay + Beside this Fountain's brink. + + My eyes are dim with childish tears. + My heart is idly stirr'd, + For the same sound is in my ears, + Which in those days I heard. + + Thus fares it still in our decay: + And yet the wiser mind + Mourns less for what age takes away + Than what it leaves behind. + + The blackbird in the summer trees, + The lark upon the hill, + Let loose their carols when they please, + Are quiet when they will. + + With Nature never do _they_ wage + A foolish strife; they see + A happy youth, and their old age + Is beautiful and free: + + But we are press'd by heavy laws, + And often, glad no more, + We wear a face of joy, because + We have been glad of yore. + + If there is one who need bemoan + His kindred laid in earth, + The houshold hearts that were his own, + It is the man of mirth. + + "My days, my Friend, are almost gone, + My life has been approv'd, + And many love me, but by none + Am I enough belov'd." + + "Now both himself and me he wrongs, + The man who thus complains! + I live and sing my idle songs + Upon these happy plains," + + "And, Matthew, for thy Children dead + I'll be a son to thee!" + At this he grasp'd his hands, and said, + "Alas! that cannot be." + + We rose up from the fountain-side, + And down the smooth descent + Of the green sheep-track did we glide, + And through the wood we went, + + And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, + He sang those witty rhymes + About the crazy old church-clock + And the bewilder'd chimes. + + + + + + +NUTTING. + + + --It seems a day, + One of those heavenly days which cannot die, + When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, [1] + And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung, + A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps + Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, + Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds + Put on for the occasion, by advice + And exhortation of my frugal Dame. + +[Footnote 1: The house at which I was boarded during the time +I was at School.] + + Motley accoutrements! of power to smile + At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, + More ragged than need was. Among the woods, + And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way + Until, at length, I came to one dear nook + Unvisited, where not a broken bough + Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign + Of devastation, but the hazels rose + Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, + A virgin scene!--A little while I stood, + Breathing with such suppression of the heart + As joy delights in; and with wise restraint + Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed + The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate + Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd; + A temper known to those, who, after long + And weary expectation, have been bless'd + With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-- + --Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves + The violets of five seasons re-appear + And fade, unseen by any human eye, + Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on + For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, + And with my cheek on one of those green stones + That, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees, + Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep, + I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, + In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay + Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure + The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, + Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, + And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, + And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash + And merciless ravage; and the shady nook + Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower + Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up + Their quiet being: and unless I now + Confound my present feelings with the past, + Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away, + Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings + I felt a sense of pain when I beheld + The silent trees and the intruding sky.-- + + Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades + In gentleness of heart with gentle hand + Touch,--for there is a Spirit in the woods. + + + + + + Three years she grew in sun and shower, + Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower + On earth was never sown; + This Child I to myself will take, + She shall be mine, and I will make + A Lady of my own." + + Myself will to my darling be + Both law and impulse, and with me + The Girl in rock and plain, + In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, + Shall feel an overseeing power + To kindle or restrain. + + She shall be sportive as the fawn + That wild with glee across the lawn + Or up the mountain springs, + And hers shall be the breathing balm, + And hers the silence and the calm + Of mute insensate things. + + The floating clouds their state shall lend + To her, for her the willow bend, + Nor shall she fail to see + Even in the motions of the storm + A beauty that shall mould her form + By silent sympathy. + + The stars of midnight shall be dear + To her, and she shall lean her ear + In many a secret place + Where rivulets dance their wayward round, + And beauty born of murmuring sound + Shall pass into her face. + + And vital feelings of delight + Shall rear her form to stately height, + Her virgin bosom swell, + Such thoughts to Lucy I will give + While she and I together live + Here in this happy dell. + + Thus Nature spake--The work was done-- + How soon my Lucy's race was run! + She died and left to me + This heath, this calm and quiet scene, + The memory of what has been, + And never more will be. + + + + +The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral. + + The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; + I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink! + And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied; + A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side. + + No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone, + And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone; + With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, + While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal. + + The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took + Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook. + "Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone + That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own. + + 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare; + I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair. + And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away, + But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. + + Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place + I unobserv'd could see the workings of her face: + If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring + Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing. + + What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord? + Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? + Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be. + Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee? + + What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? + Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: + This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer, + And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears. + + If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, + This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain, + For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear, + The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here. + + Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day + When my Father found thee first in places far away: + Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none, + And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone. + + He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home, + A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam? + A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean + Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. + + Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can + Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran; + And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew + I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. + + Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, + Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough, + My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold + Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. + + It will not, will not rest!--poor Creature can it be + That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working so in thee? + Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, + And dreams of things which thou can'st neither see nor hear. + + Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! + I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there, + The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, + When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. + + Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky, + He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by, + Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be, + Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee? + + As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, + This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, + And it seem'd as I retrac'd the ballad line by line + That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. + + Again, and once again did I repeat the song, + "Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong, + For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, + That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own." + + + + + +_Written in GERMANY, + On one of the coldest days of the Century_. + +_I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany +generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this +being part of the Brunswick Arms_. + + + + + A fig for your languages, German and Norse, + Let me have the song of the Kettle, + And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse + That gallops away with such fury and force + On this dreary dull plate of black metal. + + Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff, + But her pulses beat slower and slower. + The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, + And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough, + And _now_ it is four degrees lower. + + Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps + A child of the field, or the grove, + And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat + Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat, + And he creeps to the edge of my stove. + + Alas! how he fumbles about the domains + Which this comfortless oven environ, + He cannot find out in what track he must crawl + Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall, + And now on the brink of the iron. + + Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd, + The best of his skill he has tried; + His feelers methinks I can see him put forth + To the East and the West, and the South and the North, + But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. + + See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh, + His eyesight and hearing are lost, + Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws, + And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze + Are glued to his sides by the frost. + + No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I + Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love, + As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, + As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, + And woodbines were hanging above. + + Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing, + Thy life I would gladly sustain + Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds + Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds, + And back to the forests again. + + + + + +_The CHILDLESS FATHER_. + + + + + Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! + Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; + The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, + And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds. + + --Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green, + On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen, + With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow, + The girls on the hills made a holiday show. + + The bason of box-wood, [9] just six months before, + Had stood on the table at Timothy's door, + A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pass'd, + One Child did it bear and that Child was his last. + +[Footnote 9: In several parts of the North of England, when a +funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at +the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each +person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this +Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.] + + Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, + The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away! + Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shut + With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. + + Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, + "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead" + But of this in my ears not a word did he speak, + And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. + + + + + + + + +THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. + _A DESCRIPTION._ + + + +_The OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR, + A DESCRIPTION_. + + + +The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, +will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, +old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in +their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at +different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, +but mostly in provisions. + + + + I saw an aged Beggar in my walk, + And he was seated by the highway side + On a low structure of rude masonry + Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they + Who lead their horses down the steep rough road + May thence remount at ease. The aged man + Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone + That overlays the pile, and from a bag + All white with flour the dole of village dames, + He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, + And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look + Of idle computation. In the sun, + Upon the second step of that small pile, + Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, + He sate, and eat his food in solitude; + And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand, + That still attempting to prevent the waste, + Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers + Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds, + Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal, + Approached within the length of half his staff. + + Him from my childhood have I known, and then + He was so old, he seems not older now; + He travels on, a solitary man, + So helpless in appearance, that for him + The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw + With careless hand his alms upon the ground, + But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin + Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, + But still when he has given his horse the rein + Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, + Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tends + The toll-gate, when in summer at her door + She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees + The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, + And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. + The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertake + The aged Beggar, in the woody lane, + Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance + The old Man does not change his course, the Boy + Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, + And passes gently by, without a curse + Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. + + He travels on, a solitary Man, + His age has no companion. On the ground + His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along, + _They_ move along the ground; and evermore; + Instead of common and habitual sight + Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, + And the blue sky, one little span of earth + Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, + Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground, + He plies his weary journey, seeing still, + And never knowing that he sees, some straw, + Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track, + The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left + Impress'd on the white road, in the same line, + At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! + His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet + Disturb the summer dust, he is so still + In look and motion that the cottage curs, + Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away + Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, + The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, + And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by: + Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. + + But deem not this man useless.--Statesmen! ye + Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye + Who have a broom still ready in your hands + To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, + Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate + Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not + A burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's law + That none, the meanest of created things, + Of forms created the most vile and brute, + The dullest or most noxious, should exist + Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good, + A life and soul to every mode of being + Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps + From door to door, the Villagers in him + Behold a record which together binds + Past deeds and offices of charity + Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive + The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, + And that half-wisdom, half-experience gives + Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign + To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. + + Among the farms and solitary huts + Hamlets, and thinly-scattered villages, + Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, + The mild necessity of use compels + To acts of love; and habit does the work + Of reason, yet prepares that after joy + Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, + By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd + Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd + To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, + By their good works exalted, lofty minds + And meditative, authors of delight + And happiness, which to the end of time + Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these, + In childhood, from this solitary being, + This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, + (A thing more precious far than all that books + Or the solicitudes of love can do!) + That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, + In which they found their kindred with a world + Where want and sorrow were. The easy man + Who sits at his own door, and like the pear + Which overhangs his head from the green wall, + Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, + The prosperous and unthinking, they who live + Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove + Of their own kindred, all behold in him + A silent monitor, which on their minds + Must needs impress a transitory thought + Of self-congratulation, to the heart + Of each recalling his peculiar boons, + His charters and exemptions; and perchance, + Though he to no one give the fortitude + And circumspection needful to preserve + His present blessings, and to husband up + The respite of the season, he, at least, + And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt. + + Yet further.--Many, I believe, there are + Who live a life of virtuous decency, + Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel + No self-reproach, who of the moral law + Establish'd in the land where they abide + Are strict observers, and not negligent, + Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart + Or act of love to those with whom they dwell, + Their kindred, and the children of their blood. + + Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! + --But of the poor man ask, the abject poor, + Go and demand of him, if there be here, + In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, + And these inevitable charities, + Wherewith to satisfy the human soul. + No--man is dear to man: the poorest poor + Long for some moments in a weary life + When they can know and feel that they have been + Themselves the fathers and the dealers out + Of some small blessings, have been kind to such + As needed kindness, for this single cause, + That we have all of us one human heart. + + --Such pleasure is to one kind Being known + My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week + Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself + By her own wants, she from her chest of meal + Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip + Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door + Returning with exhilarated heart, + Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n. + + Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! + And while, in that vast solitude to which + The tide of things has led him, he appears + To breathe and live but for himself alone, + Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about + The good which the benignant law of heaven + Has hung around him, and, while life is his, + Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers + To tender offices and pensive thoughts. + + Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! + And, long as he can wander, let him breathe + The freshness of the vallies, let his blood + Struggle with frosty air and winter snows, + And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath + Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. + Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness + Gives the last human interest to his heart. + May never House, misnamed of industry, + Make him a captive; for that pent-up din, + Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, + Be his the natural silence of old age. + + Let him be free of mountain solitudes, + And have around him, whether heard or nor, + The pleasant melody of woodland birds. + Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now + Have been so long familiar with the earth, + No more behold the horizontal sun + Rising or setting, let the light at least + Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. + + And let him, _where_ and _when_ he will, sit down + Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank + Of high-way side, and with the little birds + Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally, + As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd, + So in the eye of Nature let him die. + + + + + +_RURAL ARCHITECTURE_. + + + + + There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, + Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more + Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; + To the top of Great How did it please them to climb, + and there they built up without mortar or lime + A Man on the peak of the crag. + + They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay, + They built him and christen'd him all in one day, + An Urchin both vigorous and hale; + And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones. + Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones; + The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. + + Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth, + And, in anger or merriment, out of the North + Coming on with a terrible pother, + From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. + And what did these School-boys?--The very next day + They went and they built up another. + + --Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works + In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, + Spirits busy to do and undo: + At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag. + --Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag! + And I'll build up a Giant with you. + + + + +Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the +foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of +Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside. + + + + + +_A POET'S EPITAPH_. + + + + Art thou a Statesman, in the van + Of public business train'd and bred, + --First learn to love one living man; + _Then_ may'st thou think upon the dead. + + A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh; + Go, carry to some other place + The hardness of thy coward eye, + The falshood of thy sallow face. + + Art thou a man of purple cheer? + A rosy man, right plump to see? + Approach; yet Doctor, not too near: + This grave no cushion is for thee. + + Art thou a man of gallant pride, + A Soldier, and no mail of chaff? + Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, + And lean upon a Peasant's staff. + + Physician art thou? One, all eyes, + Philosopher! a fingering slave, + One that would peep and botanize + Upon his mother's grave? + + Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece + O turn aside, and take, I pray, + That he below may rest in peace, + Thy pin-point of a soul away! + + --A Moralist perchance appears; + Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: + And He has neither eyes nor ears; + Himself his world, and his own God; + + One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling + Nor form nor feeling great nor small, + A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, + An intellectual All in All! + + Shut close the door! press down the latch: + Sleep in thy intellectual crust, + Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, + Near this unprofitable dust. + + But who is He with modest looks, + And clad in homely russet brown? + He murmurs near the running brooks + A music sweeter than their own. + + He is retired as noontide dew, + Or fountain in a noonday grove; + And you must love him, ere to you + He will seem worthy of your love. + + The outward shews of sky and earth. + Of hill and valley he has view'd; + And impulses of deeper birth + Have come to him in solitude. + + In common things that round us lie + Some random truths he can impart + The harvest of a quiet eye + That broods and sleeps on his own heart. + + But he is weak, both man and boy, + Hath been an idler in the land; + Contented if he might enjoy + The things which others understand. + + --Come hither in thy hour of strength, + Come, weak as is a breaking wave! + Here stretch thy body at full length + Or build thy house upon this grave.-- + + + + + +_A CHARACTER_, + _In the antithetical Manner_. + + + + + I marvel how Nature could ever find space + For the weight and the levity seen in his face: + There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom, + And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom. + + There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; + Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain + Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, + Would be rational peace--a philosopher's ease. + + There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, + And attention full ten times as much as there needs, + Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; + And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy. + + There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare + Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there. + There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, + Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name. + + What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, + --Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart, + And I for five centuries right gladly would be + Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he. + + + + + +A FRAGMENT + + + + Between two sister moorland rills + There is a spot that seems to lie + Sacred to flowrets of the hills, + And sacred to the sky. + + And in this smooth and open dell + There is a tempest-stricken tree; + A corner stone by lightning cut, + The last stone of a cottage hut; + And in this dell you see + A thing no storm can e'er destroy, + The shadow of a Danish Boy. + + In clouds above, the lark is heard, + He sings his blithest and his beet; + But in this lonesome nook the bird + Did never build his nest. + + No beast, no bird hath here his home; + The bees borne on the breezy air + Pass high above those fragrant bells + To other flowers, to other dells. + Nor ever linger there. + The Danish Boy walks here alone: + The lovely dell is all his own. + + A spirit of noon day is he, + He seems a Form of flesh and blood; + A piping Shepherd he might be, + A Herd-boy of the wood. + + A regal vest of fur he wears, + In colour like a raven's wing; + It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew, + But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue + As budding pines in Spring; + His helmet has a vernal grace, + Fresh as the bloom upon his face. + + A harp is from his shoulder slung; + He rests the harp upon his knee, + And there in a forgotten tongue + He warbles melody. + + Of flocks and herds both far and near + He is the darling and the joy, + And often, when no cause appears, + The mountain ponies prick their ears, + They hear the Danish Boy, + While in the dell he sits alone + Beside the tree and corner-stone. + + When near this blasted tree you pass, + Two sods are plainly to be seen + Close at its root, and each with grass + Is cover'd fresh and green. + + Like turf upon a new-made grave + These two green sods together lie, + Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind + Can these two sods together bind, + Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, + But side by side the two are laid, + As if just sever'd by the spade. + + There sits he: in his face you spy + No trace of a ferocious air, + Nor ever was a cloudless sky + So steady or so fair. + + The lovely Danish Boy is blest + And happy in his flowery cove; + From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; + And yet he warbles songs of war; + They seem like songs of love, + For calm and gentle is his mien; + Like a dead Boy he is serene. + + + + + +POEMS ON THE + _NAMING OF PLACES_. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + +By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, +many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little +Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which +will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From +a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the +gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by +the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written +in consequence. + + + + + +_POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES_. + + + + 1. + + It was an April Morning: fresh and clear + The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, + Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice + Of waters which the winter had supplied + Was soften'd down into a vernal tone. + + The spirit of enjoyment and desire, + And hopes and wishes, from all living things + Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. + The budding groves appear'd as if in haste + To spur the steps of June; as if their shades + Of various green were hindrances that stood + Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, + There was such deep contentment in the air + That every naked ash, and tardy tree + Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance + With which it look'd on this delightful day + Were native to the summer.--Up the brook + I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, + Alive to all things and forgetting all. + + At length I to a sudden turning came + In this continuous glen, where down a rock + The stream, so ardent in its course before, + Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all + Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice + Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, + The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush + Vied with this waterfall, and made a song + Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth + Or like some natural produce of the air + That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here, + But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, + The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, + With hanging islands of resplendent furze: + And on a summit, distant a short space, + By any who should look beyond the dell, + A single mountain Cottage might be seen. + I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said, + "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, + My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee." + + --Soon did the spot become my other home, + My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. + And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, + To whom I sometimes in our idle talk + Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, + Years after we are gone and in our graves, + When they have cause to speak of this wild place, + May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL. + + + + + + + II. + + + _To JOANNA_. + + Amid the smoke of cities did you pass + Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd, + From years of quiet industry, to love + The living Beings by your own fire-side, + With such a strong devotion, that your heart + Is slow towards the sympathies of them + Who look upon the hills with tenderness, + And make dear friendships with the streams and groves. + Yet we who are transgressors in this kind, + Dwelling retired in our simplicity + Among the woods and fields, we love you well, + Joanna! and I guess, since you have been + So distant from us now for two long years, + That you will gladly listen to discourse + However trivial, if you thence are taught + That they, with whom you once were happy, talk + Familiarly of you and of old times. + + While I was seated, now some ten days past, + Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop + Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower, + The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by + Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd, + "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! + And when will she return to us?" he paus'd, + And after short exchange of village news, + He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, + Reviving obsolete Idolatry, + I like a Runic Priest, in characters + Of formidable size, had chisel'd out + Some uncouth name upon the native rock, + Above the Rotha, by the forest side. + --Now, by those dear immunities of heart + Engender'd betwixt malice and true love, + I was not both to be so catechiz'd, + And this was my reply.--"As it befel, + One summer morning we had walk'd abroad + At break of day, Joanna and myself. + --'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, + Full flower'd, and visible on every steep, + Along the copses runs in veins of gold." + + Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, + And when we came in front of that tall rock + Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, + And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye + From base to summit; such delight I found + To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, + That intermixture of delicious hues, + Along so vast a surface, all at once, + In one impression, by connecting force + Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart. + + --When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space, + Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld + That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud. + The rock, like something starting from a sleep, + Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again: + That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag + Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar, + And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth + A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, + And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone: + Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky + Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew + His speaking trumpet;--back out of the clouds + Of Glaramara southward came the voice; + And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head. + Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend + Who in the hey-day of astonishment + Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth + A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood + Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd + With dreams and visionary impulses, + Is not for me to tell; but sure I am + That there was a loud uproar in the hills. + And, while we both were listening, to my side + The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd + To shelter from some object of her fear. + + --And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons + Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone + Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm + And silent morning, I sate down, and there, + In memory of affections old and true, + I chissel'd out in those rude characters + Joanna's name upon the living stone. + And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side + Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock. + + +NOTE. + +In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the +native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the +Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. + +The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing +through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On +Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale +of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a +striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is +one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the +Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately +surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cluster. + + + + + + + III. + + There is an Eminence,--of these our hills + The last that parleys with the setting sun. + We can behold it from our Orchard seat. + And, when at evening we pursue our walk + Along the public way, this Cliff, so high + Above us, and so distant in its height, + Is visible, and often seems to send + Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts. + The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: + The star of Jove, so beautiful and large + In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair + As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth + The loneliest place we have among the clouds. + + And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd + With such communion, that no place on earth + Can ever be a solitude to me, + Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name. + + + + IV. + + A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, + A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd + Between the water and a winding slope + Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore + Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. + And there, myself and two beloved Friends, + One calm September morning, ere the mist + Had altogether yielded to the sun, + Saunter'd on this retir'd and difficult way. + --Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we + Play'd with our time; and, as we stroll'd along, + + It was our occupation to observe + Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore, + Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough, + Each on the other heap'd along the line + Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood, + Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft + Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, + Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd + By some internal feeling, skimm'd along + Close to the surface of the lake that lay + Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on + Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there, + In all its sportive wanderings all the while + Making report of an invisible breeze + That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, + Its very playmate, and its moving soul. + + --And often, trifling with a privilege + Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now, + And now the other, to point out, perchance + To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair + Either to be divided from the place + On which it grew, or to be left alone + To its own beauty. Many such there are, + Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant + So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam'd, + Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode + On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side + Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere + Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance. + --So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields + Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth + Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls. + + Delighted much to listen to those sounds, + And in the fashion which I have describ'd, + Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc'd + Along the indented shore; when suddenly, + Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw + Before us on a point of jutting land + The tall and upright figure of a Man + Attir'd in peasant's garb, who stood alone + Angling beside the margin of the lake. + That way we turn'd our steps: nor was it long, + Ere making ready comments on the sight + Which then we saw, with one and the same voice + We all cried out, that he must be indeed + An idle man, who thus could lose a day + Of the mid harvest, when the labourer's hire + Is ample, and some little might be stor'd + Wherewith to chear him in the winter time. + + Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd + Close to the spot where with his rod and line + He stood alone; whereat he turn'd his head + To greet us--and we saw a man worn down + By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks + And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean + That for my single self I look'd at them, + Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.-- + Too weak to labour in the harvest field, + The man was using his best skill to gain + A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake + That knew not of his wants. I will not say + What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how + The happy idleness of that sweet morn, + With all its lovely images, was chang'd + To serious musing and to self-reproach. + + Nor did we fail to see within ourselves + What need there is to be reserv'd in speech, + And temper all our thoughts with charity. + --Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, + My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv'd + The same admonishment, have call'd the plate + By a memorial name, uncouth indeed + As e'er by Mariner was giv'n to Bay + Or Foreland on a new-discover'd coast, + And, POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the Name it bears. + + + + + + + V. + + _To M. H_. + + Our walk was far among the ancient trees: + There was no road, nor any wood-man's path, + But the thick umbrage, checking the wild growth + Of weed sapling, on the soft green turf + Beneath the branches of itself had made + A track which brought us to a slip of lawn, + And a small bed of water in the woods. + + All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink + On its firm margin, even as from a well + Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's hand + Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun + Or wind from any quarter ever come + But as a blessing to this calm recess, + This glade of water and this one green field. + The spot was made by Nature for herself: + The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain + Unknown to them; but it is beautiful, + And if a man should plant his cottage near. + Should sleep beneath the shelter of its tress, + And blend its waters with his daily meal, + He would so love it that in his death-hour + Its image would survive among his thoughts, + And, therefore, my sweet MARY, this still nook + With all its beeches we have named from You. + + + + + +MICHAEL, + _A PASTORAL POEM_. + + _MICHAEL_, + + _A PASTORAL POEM_ + + + + If from the public way you turn your steps + Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, + You will suppose that with an upright path + Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent + The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. + But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook + The mountains have all open'd out themselves, + And made a hidden valley of their own. + + No habitation there is seen; but such + As journey thither find themselves alone + With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites + That overhead are sailing in the sky. + It is in truth an utter solitude, + Nor should I have made mention of this Dell + But for one object which you might pass by, + Might see and notice not. Beside the brook + There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones! + And to that place a story appertains, + Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events, + Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, + Or for the summer shade. It was the first, + The earliest of those tales that spake to me + Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men + Whom I already lov'd, not verily + For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills + Where was their occupation and abode. + + And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy + Careless of books, yet having felt the power + Of Nature, by the gentle agency + Of natural objects led me on to feel + For passions that were not my own, and think + At random and imperfectly indeed + On man; the heart of man and human life. + Therefore, although it be a history + Homely and rude, I will relate the same + For the delight of a few natural hearts, + And with yet fonder feeling, for the sake + Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills + Will be my second self when I am gone. + + + + + + Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale + There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name. + An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. + His bodily frame had been from youth to age + Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen + Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, + And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt + And watchful more than ordinary men. + + Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, + Of blasts of every tone, and often-times + When others heeded not, He heard the South + Make subterraneous music, like the noise + Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills; + The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock + Bethought him, and he to himself would say + The winds are now devising work for me! + + And truly at all times the storm, that drives + The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him + Up to the mountains: he had been alone + Amid the heart of many thousand mists + That came to him and left him on the heights. + So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. + + And grossly that man errs, who should suppose + That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks + Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. + Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd + The common air; the hills, which he so oft + Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd + So many incidents upon his mind + Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; + Which like a book preserv'd the memory + Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd, + Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, + So grateful in themselves, the certainty + Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills + Which were his living Being, even more + Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid + Strong hold on his affections, were to him + A pleasurable feeling of blind love, + The pleasure which there is in life itself. + + He had not passed his days in singleness. + He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old + Though younger than himself full twenty years. + She was a woman of a stirring life + Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had + Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, + That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest, + It was because the other was at work. + The Pair had but one Inmate in their house, + An only Child, who had been born to them + When Michael telling o'er his years began + To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase, + With one foot in the grave. This only son, + With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm. + + The one of an inestimable worth, + Made all their Household. I may truly say, + That they were as a proverb in the vale + For endless industry. When day was gone, + And from their occupations out of doors + The Son and Father were come home, even then, + Their labour did not cease, unless when all + Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there + Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, + Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes, + And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal + Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd) + And his old Father, both betook themselves + To such convenient work, as might employ + Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card + Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair + Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, + Or other implement of house or field. + + Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge, + Which in our ancient uncouth country style + Did with a huge projection overbrow + Large space beneath, as duly as the light + Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp; + An aged utensil, which had perform'd + Service beyond all others of its kind. + + Early at evening did it burn and late, + Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours + Which going by from year to year had found + And left the Couple neither gay perhaps + Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes + Living a life of eager industry. + + And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year, + There by the light of this old lamp they sate, + Father and Son, while late into the night + The House-wife plied her own peculiar work, + Making the cottage thro' the silent hours + Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. + + Not with a waste of words, but for the sake + Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give + To many living now, I of this Lamp + Speak thus minutely: for there are no few + Whose memories will bear witness to my tale, + The Light was famous in its neighbourhood, + And was a public Symbol of the life, + The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd, + Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground + Stood single, with large prospect North and South, + High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise, + And Westward to the village near the Lake. + And from this constant light so regular + And so far seen, the House itself by all + Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, + Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star. + + Thus living on through such a length of years, + The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs + Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart + This Son of his old age was yet more dear-- + Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd + By that instinctive tenderness, the same + Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all, + Or that a child, more than all other gifts, + Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, + And stirrings of inquietude, when they + By tendency of nature needs must fail. + + From such, and other causes, to the thoughts + Of the old Man his only Son was now + The dearest object that he knew on earth. + Exceeding was the love he bare to him, + His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimes + Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, + Had done him female service, not alone + For dalliance and delight, as is the use + Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd + To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd + His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. + + And in a later time, ere yet the Boy + Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love, + Albeit of a stern unbending mind, + To have the young one in his sight, when he + Had work by his own door, or when he sate + With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, + Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door + Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade + Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, + Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd + The CLIPPING TREE, [10] a name which yet it bears. + +[Footnote 10: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for +shearing.] + + There, while they two were sitting in the shade, + With others round them, earnest all and blithe, + Would Michael exercise his heart with looks + Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd + Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep + By catching at their legs, or with his shouts + Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears. + + And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up + A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek + Two steady roses that were five years old, + Then Michael from a winter coppice cut + With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd + With iron, making it throughout in all + Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, + And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd + He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd + At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock, + And to his office prematurely call'd + There stood the urchin, as you will divine, + Something between a hindrance and a help, + And for this cause not always, I believe, + Receiving from his Father hire of praise. + + While this good household thus were living on + From day to day, to Michael's ear there came + Distressful tidings. Long before, the time + Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound + In surety for his Brother's Son, a man + Of an industrious life, and ample means, + But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly + Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now + Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, + A grievous penalty, but little less + Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim + At the first hearing, for a moment took + More hope out of his life than he supposed + That any old man ever could have lost. + + As soon as he had gather'd so much strength + That he could look his trouble in the face, + It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell + A portion of his patrimonial fields. + Such was his first resolve; he thought again, + And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he, + Two evenings after he had heard the news, + "I have been toiling more than seventy years, + And in the open sun-shine of God's love + Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours + Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think + That I could not lie quiet in my grave." + + "Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself + Has scarcely been more diligent than I, + And I have liv'd to be a fool at last + To my own family. An evil Man + That was, and made an evil choice, if he + Were false to us; and if he were not false, + There are ten thousand to whom loss like this + Had been no sorrow. I forgive him--but + 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. + When I began, my purpose was to speak + Of remedies and of a chearful hope." + + "Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land + Shall not go from us, and it shall be free, + He shall possess it, free as is the wind + That passes over it. We have, thou knowest, + Another Kinsman, he will be our friend + In this distress. He is a prosperous man, + Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go, + And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift, + He quickly will repair this loss, and then + May come again to us. If here he stay, + What can be done? Where every one is poor + What can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd, + And Isabel sate silent, for her mind + Was busy, looking back into past times. + + There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, + He was a parish-boy--at the church-door + They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, + And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought + A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares, + And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad + Went up to London, found a Master there, + Who out of many chose the trusty Boy + To go and overlook his merchandise + Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich, + And left estates and monies to the poor, + And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd + With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. + These thoughts, and many others of like sort, + Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel, + And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad. + + And thus resum'd. "Well I Isabel, this scheme + These two days has been meat and drink to me. + Far more than we have lost is left us yet. + --We have enough--I wish indeed that I + Were younger, but this hope is a good hope. + --Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best + Buy for him more, and let us send him forth + To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: + --If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." + Here Michael ceas'd, and to the fields went forth + With a light heart. The House-wife for five days + Was restless morn and night, and all day long + Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare + Things needful for the journey of her Son. + + But Isabel was glad when Sunday came + To stop her in her work; for, when she lay + By Michael's side, she for the two last nights + Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: + And when they rose at morning she could see + That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon + She said to Luke, while they two by themselves + Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go, + We have no other Child but thee to lose, + None to remember--do not go away, + For if thou leave thy Father he will die." + The Lad made answer with a jocund voice, + And Isabel, when she had told her fears, + Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare + Did she bring forth, and all together sate + Like happy people round a Christmas fire. + + Next morning Isabel resum'd her work, + And all the ensuing week the house appear'd + As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length + The expected letter from their Kinsman came, + With kind assurances that he would do + His utmost for the welfare of the Boy, + To which requests were added that forthwith + He might be sent to him. Ten times or more + The letter was read over; Isabel + Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round: + Nor was there at that time on English Land + A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel + Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said, + "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word + The House--wife answered, talking much of things + Which, if at such, short notice he should go, + Would surely be forgotten. But at length + She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. + + Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, + In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd + To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard + The tidings of his melancholy loss, + For this same purpose he had gathered up + A heap of stones, which close to the brook side + Lay thrown together, ready for the work. + With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd; + And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, + And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My Son, + To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart + I look upon thee, for thou art the same + That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, + And all thy life hast been my daily joy. + I will relate to thee some little part + Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good + When thou art from me, even if I should speak + Of things thou caust not know of.--After thou + First cam'st into the world, as it befalls + To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away + Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue + Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on, + And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love." + + Never to living ear came sweeter sounds + Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side + First uttering without words a natural tune, + When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy + Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, + And in the open fields my life was pass'd + And in the mountains, else I think that thou + Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. + --But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills, + As well thou know'st, in us the old and young + Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou + Lack any pleasure which a boy can know. + + Luke had a manly heart; but at these words + He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand, + And said, "Nay do not take it so--I see + That these are things of which I need not speak. + --Even to the utmost I have been to thee + A kind and a good Father: and herein + I but repay a gift which I myself + Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old + Beyond the common life of man, I still + Remember them who lov'd me in my youth." + + Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd + As all their Forefathers had done, and when + At length their time was come, they were not loth + To give their bodies to the family mold. + I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd. + But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, + And see so little gain from sixty years. + These fields were burthen'd when they came to me; + 'Till I was forty years of age, not more + Than half of my inheritance was mine. + + "I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work, + And 'till these three weeks past the land was free. + --It looks as if it never could endure + Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, + If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good + That thou should'st go." At this the Old Man paus'd, + Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, + Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd: + "This was a work for us, and now, my Son, + It is a work for me. But, lay one Stone-- + Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. + I for the purpose brought thee to this place." + + Nay, Boy, be of good hope:--we both may live + To see a better day. At eighty-four + I still am strong and stout;--do thou thy part, + I will do mine.--I will begin again + With many tasks that were resign'd to thee; + Up to the heights, and in among the storms, + Will I without thee go again, and do + All works which I was wont to do alone, + Before I knew thy face.--Heaven bless thee, Boy! + Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast + With many hopes--it should be so--yes--yes-- + I knew that thou could'st never have a wish + To leave me, Luke, thou hast been bound to me + Only by links of love, when thou art gone + What will be left to us!--But, I forget + My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, + As I requested, and hereafter, Luke, + When thou art gone away, should evil men + Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be + Thy anchor and thy shield; amid all fear + And all temptation, let it be to thee + An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, + Who, being innocent, did for that cause + Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well-- + When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see + A work which is not here, a covenant + 'Twill be between us--but whatever fate + Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, + And bear thy memory with me to the grave. + + The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, + And as his Father had requested, laid + The first stone of the Sheep-fold; at the sight + The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart + He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; + And to the House together they return'd. + + Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy + Began his journey, and when he had reach'd + The public Way, he put on a bold face; + And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doors + Came forth, with wishes and with farewell pray'rs, + That follow'd him 'till he was out of sight. + + A good report did from their Kinsman come, + Of Luke and his well-doing; and the Boy + Wrote loving letters, full of wond'rous news, + Which, as the House-wife phrased it, were throughout + The prettiest letters that were ever seen. + + Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. + So, many months pass'd on: and once again + The Shepherd went about his daily work + With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now + Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour + He to that valley took his way, and there + Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began + To slacken in his duty, and at length + He in the dissolute city gave himself + To evil courses: ignominy and shame + Fell on him, so that he was driven at last + To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. + + There is a comfort in the strength of love; + 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else + Would break the heart:--Old Michael found it so. + I have convers'd with more than one who well + Remember the Old Man, and what he was + Years after he had heard this heavy news. + His bodily frame had been from youth to age + Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks + He went, and still look'd up upon the sun. + And listen'd to the wind; and as before + Perform'd all kinds of labour for his Sheep, + And for the land his small inheritance. + + And to that hollow Dell from time to time + Did he repair, to build the Fold of which + His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet + The pity which was then in every heart + For the Old Man--ands 'tis believ'd by all + That many and many a day he thither went, + And never lifted up a single stone. + + There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen + Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, + Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. + The length of full seven years from time to time + He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, + And left the work unfinished when he died. + + Three years, or little more, did Isabel, + Survive her Husband: at her death the estate + Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. + The Cottage which was nam'd The Evening Star + Is gone, the ploughshare has been through the ground + On which it stood; great changes have been wrought + In all the neighbourhood, yet the Oak is left + That grew beside their Door; and the remains + Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen + Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill. + + + + +NOTES TO THE POEM of THE BROTHERS. + +NOTE I. + +Page 26--line 20 "There were two springs that bubbled side by side." +The impressive circumstance here described, actually took place some +years ago in this country, upon an eminence called Kidstow Pike, one +of the highest of the mountains that surround Hawes-water. The +summit of the pike was stricken by lightning; and every trace of one +of the fountains disappeared, while the other continued to flow as +before. + +NOTE II. + +Page 29--line 5 "The thought of death sits easy on the man," &c. +There is not any thing more worthy of remark in the manners of the +inhabitants of these mountains, than the tranquillity, I might say +indifference, with which they think and talk upon the subject of +death. Some of the country church-yards, as here described, do not +contain a single tombstone, and most of them have a very small number. + +NOTES TO THE POEM OF MICHAEL. + +NOTE I. + +Page 213--line 14 "There's Richard Bateman," &c. This story alluded +to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ings +Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from +Kendal to Ambleside. + +NOTE II. + +Page 217--line 4 "--had design'd to build a sheep-fold." etc. It +may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these +mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different +divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the +convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter +for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds +conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose. + +END. + +ERRATA. + +[Transcriber's note: the errata have all been corrected in this copy.] + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, +1800, Vol. 2, by William Wordsworth + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS, VOL. 2 *** + +This file should be named 8912.txt or 8912.zip + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Robert Prince and the DP Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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