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diff --git a/9622-h/9622-h.htm b/9622-h/9622-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1312a74 --- /dev/null +++ b/9622-h/9622-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4444 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg Book of Lyrical Ballads (1798), by Wordsworth and Coleridge</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> +</head> +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lyrical Ballads 1798, by William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Lyrical Ballads 1798</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: William Wordsworth<br /> +Samuel Taylor Coleridge</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 10, 2003 [eBook #9622]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 17, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS 1798 ***</div> + + <h1>LYRICAL BALLADS,<br /> + WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS.</h1> + + <hr /> + + <h3>LONDON</h3> + <h3>PRINTED FOR J. & A. ARCH,<br /> + GRACECHURCH-STREET.</h3> + <h3>1798</h3> + <hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2>ADVERTISEMENT.</h2> + + <p>It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are to be found + in every subject which can interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact is to + be sought, not in the writings of Critics, but in those of Poets themselves.</p> + <p>The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were + written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the + middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure. + Readers accustomed to the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if + they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to + struggle with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round for + poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can + be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such readers, for their own + sakes, should not suffer the solitary word Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, + to stand in the way of their gratification; but that, while they are perusing this + book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human + passions, human characters, and human incidents; and if the answer be favourable to + the author’s wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in spite of that most + dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own pre-established codes of decision.</p> + <p>Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of the style in which many of these + pieces are executed it must be expected that many lines and phrases will not exactly + suit their taste. It will perhaps appear to them, that wishing to avoid the prevalent + fault of the day, the author has sometimes descended too low, and that many of his + expressions are too familiar, and not of sufficient dignity. It is apprehended, that + the more conversant the reader is with our elder writers, and with those in modern + times who have been the most successful in painting manners and passions, the fewer + complaints of this kind will he have to make.</p> + <p>An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Sir Joshua Reynolds has + observed, is an acquired talent, which can only be produced by severe thought, and a + long continued intercourse with the best models of composition. This is mentioned not + with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inexperienced reader from judging + for himself; but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if + poetry be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may be + erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so.</p> + <p>The tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill is founded on a well-authenticated fact + which happened in Warwickshire. Of the other poems in the collection, it may be + proper to say that they are either absolute inventions of the author, or facts which + took place within his personal observation or that of his friends. The poem of the + Thorn, as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author’s + own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in + the course of the story. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere was professedly written in + imitation of the <i>style</i>, as well as of the spirit of the elder poets; but with + a few exceptions, the Author believes that the language adopted in it has been + equally intelligible for these three last centuries. The lines entitled Expostulation + and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was + somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy.</p> + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem1">The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem2">The Foster-Mother’s Tale</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem3">Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem4">The Nightingale, a Conversational Poem</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem5">The Female Vagrant</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem6">Goody Blake and Harry Gill</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem7">Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem8">Simon Lee, the old Huntsman</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem9">Anecdote for Fathers</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem10">We are seven</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem11">Lines written in early spring</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem12">The Thorn</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem13">The last of the Flock</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem14">The Dungeon</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem15">The Mad Mother</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem16">The Idiot Boy</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem17">Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem18">Expostulation and Reply</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem19">The Tables turned; an Evening Scene, on the same subject</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem20">Old Man travelling</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem21">The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem22">The Convict</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#poem23">Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem1" name="poem1"></a>THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE,<br /> + IN SEVEN PARTS.</h2> + <h3>ARGUMENT.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by Storms to the cold Country towards + the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of + the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner + the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country. + </p> + <h3>I.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + It is an ancyent Marinere,<br /> + And he stoppeth one of three:<br /> + “By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye<br /> + “Now wherefore stoppest me?<br /> + <br /> + “The Bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide<br /> + “And I am next of kin;<br /> + “The Guests are met, the Feast is set,—<br /> + “May’st hear the merry din.—<br /> + <br /> + But still he holds the wedding-guest—<br /> + There was a Ship, quoth he—<br /> + “Nay, if thou’st got a laughsome tale,<br /> + “Marinere! come with me.”<br /> + <br /> + He holds him with his skinny hand,<br /> + Quoth he, there was a Ship—<br /> + “Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!<br /> + “Or my Staff shall make thee skip.”<br /> + <br /> + He holds him with his glittering eye—<br /> + The wedding guest stood still<br /> + And listens like a three year’s child;<br /> + The Marinere hath his will.<br /> + <br /> + The wedding-guest sate on a stone,<br /> + He cannot chuse but hear:<br /> + And thus spake on that ancyent man,<br /> + The bright-eyed Marinere.<br /> + <br /> + The Ship was cheer’d, the Harbour clear’d—<br /> + Merrily did we drop<br /> + Below the Kirk, below the Hill,<br /> + Below the Light-house top.<br /> + <br /> + The Sun came up upon the left,<br /> + Out of the Sea came he:<br /> + And he shone bright, and on the right<br /> + Went down into the Sea.<br /> + <br /> + Higher and higher every day,<br /> + Till over the mast at noon—<br /> + The wedding-guest here beat his breast,<br /> + For he heard the loud bassoon.<br /> + <br /> + The Bride hath pac’d into the Hall,<br /> + Red as a rose is she;<br /> + Nodding their heads before her goes<br /> + The merry Minstralsy.<br /> + <br /> + The wedding-guest he beat his breast,<br /> + Yet he cannot chuse but hear:<br /> + And thus spake on that ancyent Man,<br /> + The bright-eyed Marinere.<br /> + <br /> + Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,<br /> + A Wind and Tempest strong!<br /> + For days and weeks it play’d us freaks—<br /> + Like Chaff we drove along.<br /> + <br /> + Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow,<br /> + And it grew wond’rous cauld:<br /> + And Ice mast-high came floating by<br /> + As green as Emerauld.<br /> + <br /> + And thro’ the drifts the snowy clifts<br /> + Did send a dismal sheen;<br /> + Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken—<br /> + The Ice was all between.<br /> + <br /> + The Ice was here, the Ice was there,<br /> + The Ice was all around:<br /> + It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d—<br /> + Like noises of a swound.<br /> + <br /> + At length did cross an Albatross,<br /> + Thorough the Fog it came;<br /> + And an it were a Christian Soul,<br /> + We hail’d it in God’s name.<br /> + <br /> + The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms,<br /> + And round and round it flew:<br /> + The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit;<br /> + The Helmsman steer’d us thro’.<br /> + <br /> + And a good south wind sprung up behind,<br /> + The Albatross did follow;<br /> + And every day for food or play<br /> + Came to the Marinere’s hollo!<br /> + <br /> + In mist or cloud on mast or shroud<br /> + It perch’d for vespers nine,<br /> + Whiles all the night thro’ fog-smoke white<br /> + Glimmer’d the white moon-shine.<br /> + <br /> + “God save thee, ancyent Marinere!<br /> + “From the fiends that plague thee thus—<br /> + “Why look’st thou so?”—with my cross bow<br /> + I shot the Albatross.<br /> + </p> + <h3>II.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + The Sun came up upon the right,<br /> + Out of the Sea came he;<br /> + And broad as a weft upon the left<br /> + Went down into the Sea.<br /> + <br /> + And the good south wind still blew behind,<br /> + But no sweet Bird did follow<br /> + Ne any day for food or play<br /> + Came to the Marinere’s hollo!<br /> + <br /> + And I had done an hellish thing<br /> + And it would work ’em woe:<br /> + For all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird<br /> + That made the Breeze to blow.<br /> + <br /> + Ne dim ne red, like God’s own head,<br /> + The glorious Sun uprist:<br /> + Then all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird<br /> + That brought the fog and mist.<br /> + ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay<br /> + That bring the fog and mist.<br /> + <br /> + The breezes blew, the white foam flew,<br /> + The furrow follow’d free:<br /> + We were the first that ever burst<br /> + Into that silent Sea.<br /> + <br /> + Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,<br /> + ’Twas sad as sad could be<br /> + And we did speak only to break<br /> + The silence of the Sea.<br /> + <br /> + All in a hot and copper sky<br /> + The bloody sun at noon,<br /> + Right up above the mast did stand,<br /> + No bigger than the moon.<br /> + <br /> + Day after day, day after day,<br /> + We stuck, ne breath ne motion,<br /> + As idle as a painted Ship<br /> + Upon a painted Ocean.<br /> + <br /> + Water, water, every where<br /> + And all the boards did shrink;<br /> + Water, water, every where,<br /> + Ne any drop to drink.<br /> + <br /> + The very deeps did rot: O Christ!<br /> + That ever this should be!<br /> + Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs<br /> + Upon the slimy Sea.<br /> + <br /> + About, about, in reel and rout<br /> + The Death-fires danc’d at night;<br /> + The water, like a witch’s oils,<br /> + Burnt green and blue and white.<br /> + <br /> + And some in dreams assured were<br /> + Of the Spirit that plagued us so:<br /> + Nine fathom deep he had follow’d us<br /> + From the Land of Mist and Snow.<br /> + <br /> + And every tongue thro’ utter drouth<br /> + Was wither’d at the root;<br /> + We could not speak no more than if<br /> + We had been choked with soot.<br /> + <br /> + Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks<br /> + Had I from old and young;<br /> + Instead of the Cross the Albatross<br /> + About my neck was hung.<br /> + </p> + <h3>III.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I saw a something in the Sky<br /> + No bigger than my fist;<br /> + At first it seem’d a little speck<br /> + And then it seem’d a mist:<br /> + It mov’d and mov’d, and took at last<br /> + A certain shape, I wist.<br /> + <br /> + A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!<br /> + And still it ner’d and ner’d;<br /> + And, an it dodg’d a water-sprite,<br /> + It plung’d and tack’d and veer’d.<br /> + <br /> + With throat unslack’d, with black lips bak’d<br /> + Ne could we laugh, ne wail:<br /> + Then while thro’ drouth all dumb they stood<br /> + I bit my arm and suck’d the blood<br /> + And cry’d, A sail! a sail!<br /> + <br /> + With throat unslack’d, with black lips bak’d<br /> + Agape they hear’d me call:<br /> + Gramercy! they for joy did grin<br /> + And all at once their breath drew in<br /> + As they were drinking all.<br /> + <br /> + She doth not tack from side to side—<br /> + Hither to work us weal<br /> + Withouten wind, withouten tide<br /> + She steddies with upright keel.<br /> + <br /> + The western wave was all a flame,<br /> + The day was well nigh done!<br /> + Almost upon the western wave<br /> + Rested the broad bright Sun;<br /> + When that strange shape drove suddenly<br /> + Betwixt us and the Sun.<br /> + <br /> + And strait the Sun was fleck’d with bars<br /> + (Heaven’s mother send us grace)<br /> + As if thro’ a dungeon grate he peer’d<br /> + With broad and burning face.<br /> + <br /> + Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)<br /> + How fast she neres and neres!<br /> + Are those <i>her</i> Sails that glance in the Sun<br /> + Like restless gossameres?<br /> + <br /> + Are these <i>her</i> naked ribs, which fleck’d<br /> + The sun that did behind them peer?<br /> + And are these two all, all the crew,<br /> + That woman and her fleshless Pheere?<br /> + <br /> + <i>His</i> bones were black with many a crack,<br /> + All black and bare, I ween;<br /> + Jet-black and bare, save where with rust<br /> + Of mouldy damps and charnel crust<br /> + They’re patch’d with purple and green.<br /> + <br /> + <i>Her</i> lips are red, <i>her</i> looks are free,<br /> + <i>Her</i> locks are yellow as gold:<br /> + Her skin is as white as leprosy,<br /> + And she is far liker Death than he;<br /> + Her flesh makes the still air cold.<br /> + <br /> + The naked Hulk alongside came<br /> + And the Twain were playing dice;<br /> + “The Game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!”<br /> + Quoth she, and whistled thrice.<br /> + <br /> + A gust of wind sterte up behind<br /> + And whistled thro’ his bones;<br /> + Thro’ the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth<br /> + Half-whistles and half-groans.<br /> + <br /> + With never a whisper in the Sea<br /> + Off darts the Spectre-ship;<br /> + While clombe above the Eastern bar<br /> + The horned Moon, with one bright Star<br /> + Almost atween the tips.<br /> + <br /> + One after one by the horned Moon<br /> + (Listen, O Stranger! to me)<br /> + Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang<br /> + And curs’d me with his ee.<br /> + <br /> + Four times fifty living men,<br /> + With never a sigh or groan,<br /> + With heavy thump, a lifeless lump<br /> + They dropp’d down one by one.<br /> + <br /> + Their souls did from their bodies fly,—<br /> + They fled to bliss or woe;<br /> + And every soul it pass’d me by,<br /> + Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.<br /> + </p> + <h3>IV.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + “I fear thee, ancyent Marinere!<br /> + “I fear thy skinny hand;<br /> + “And thou art long and lank and brown<br /> + “As is the ribb’d Sea-sand.<br /> + <br /> + “I fear thee and thy glittering eye<br /> + “And thy skinny hand so brown”—<br /> + Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest!<br /> + This body dropt not down.<br /> + <br /> + Alone, alone, all all alone<br /> + Alone on the wide wide Sea;<br /> + And Christ would take no pity on<br /> + My soul in agony.<br /> + <br /> + The many men so beautiful,<br /> + And they all dead did lie!<br /> + And a million million slimy things<br /> + Liv’d on—and so did I.<br /> + <br /> + I look’d upon the rotting Sea,<br /> + And drew my eyes away;<br /> + I look’d upon the eldritch deck,<br /> + And there the dead men lay.<br /> + <br /> + I look’d to Heaven, and try’d to pray;<br /> + But or ever a prayer had gusht,<br /> + A wicked whisper came and made<br /> + My heart as dry as dust.<br /> + <br /> + I clos’d my lids and kept them close,<br /> + Till the balls like pulses beat;<br /> + For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky<br /> + Lay like a load on my weary eye,<br /> + And the dead were at my feet.<br /> + <br /> + The cold sweat melted from their limbs,<br /> + Ne rot, ne reek did they;<br /> + The look with which they look’d on me,<br /> + Had never pass’d away.<br /> + <br /> + An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell<br /> + A spirit from on high:<br /> + But O! more horrible than that<br /> + Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!<br /> + Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse<br /> + And yet I could not die.<br /> + <br /> + The moving Moon went up the sky<br /> + And no where did abide:<br /> + Softly she was going up<br /> + And a star or two beside—<br /> + <br /> + Her beams bemock’d the sultry main<br /> + Like morning frosts yspread;<br /> + But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,<br /> + The charmed water burnt alway<br /> + A still and awful red.<br /> + <br /> + Beyond the shadow of the ship<br /> + I watch’d the water-snakes:<br /> + They mov’d in tracks of shining white;<br /> + And when they rear’d, the elfish light<br /> + Fell off in hoary flakes.<br /> + <br /> + Within the shadow of the ship<br /> + I watch’d their rich attire:<br /> + Blue, glossy green, and velvet black<br /> + They coil’d and swam; and every track<br /> + Was a flash of golden fire.<br /> + <br /> + O happy living things! no tongue<br /> + Their beauty might declare:<br /> + A spring of love gusht from my heart,<br /> + And I bless’d them unaware!<br /> + Sure my kind saint took pity on me,<br /> + And I bless’d them unaware.<br /> + <br /> + The self-same moment I could pray;<br /> + And from my neck so free<br /> + The Albatross fell off, and sank<br /> + Like lead into the sea.<br /> + </p> + <h3>V.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + O sleep, it is a gentle thing<br /> + Belov’d from pole to pole!<br /> + To Mary-queen the praise be yeven<br /> + She sent the gentle sleep from heaven<br /> + That slid into my soul.<br /> + <br /> + The silly buckets on the deck<br /> + That had so long remain’d,<br /> + I dreamt that they were fill’d with dew<br /> + And when I awoke it rain’d.<br /> + <br /> + My lips were wet, my throat was cold,<br /> + My garments all were dank;<br /> + Sure I had drunken in my dreams<br /> + And still my body drank.<br /> + <br /> + I mov’d and could not feel my limbs,<br /> + I was so light, almost<br /> + I thought that I had died in sleep,<br /> + And was a blessed Ghost.<br /> + <br /> + The roaring wind! it roar’d far off,<br /> + It did not come anear;<br /> + But with its sound it shook the sails<br /> + That were so thin and sere.<br /> + <br /> + The upper air bursts into life,<br /> + And a hundred fire-flags sheen<br /> + To and fro they are hurried about;<br /> + And to and fro, and in and out<br /> + The stars dance on between.<br /> + <br /> + The coming wind doth roar more loud;<br /> + The sails do sigh, like sedge:<br /> + The rain pours down from one black cloud<br /> + And the Moon is at its edge.<br /> + <br /> + Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,<br /> + And the Moon is at its side:<br /> + Like waters shot from some high crag,<br /> + The lightning falls with never a jag<br /> + A river steep and wide.<br /> + <br /> + The strong wind reach’d the ship: it roar’d<br /> + And dropp’d down, like a stone!<br /> + Beneath the lightning and the moon<br /> + The dead men gave a groan.<br /> + <br /> + They groan’d, they stirr’d, they all uprose,<br /> + Ne spake, ne mov’d their eyes:<br /> + It had been strange, even in a dream<br /> + To have seen those dead men rise.<br /> + <br /> + The helmsman steerd, the ship mov’d on;<br /> + Yet never a breeze up-blew;<br /> + The Marineres all ’gan work the ropes,<br /> + Where they were wont to do:<br /> + They rais’d their limbs like lifeless tools—<br /> + We were a ghastly crew.<br /> + <br /> + The body of my brother’s son<br /> + Stood by me knee to knee:<br /> + The body and I pull’d at one rope,<br /> + But he said nought to me—<br /> + And I quak’d to think of my own voice<br /> + How frightful it would be!<br /> + <br /> + The day-light dawn’d—they dropp’d their arms,<br /> + And cluster’d round the mast:<br /> + Sweet sounds rose slowly thro’ their mouths<br /> + And from their bodies pass’d.<br /> + <br /> + Around, around, flew each sweet sound,<br /> + Then darted to the sun:<br /> + Slowly the sounds came back again<br /> + Now mix’d, now one by one.<br /> + <br /> + Sometimes a dropping from the sky<br /> + I heard the Lavrock sing;<br /> + Sometimes all little birds that are<br /> + How they seem’d to fill the sea and air<br /> + With their sweet jargoning,<br /> + <br /> + And now ’twas like all instruments,<br /> + Now like a lonely flute;<br /> + And now it is an angel’s song<br /> + That makes the heavens be mute.<br /> + <br /> + It ceas’d: yet still the sails made on<br /> + A pleasant noise till noon,<br /> + A noise like of a hidden brook<br /> + In the leafy month of June,<br /> + That to the sleeping woods all night<br /> + Singeth a quiet tune.<br /> + <br /> + Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!<br /> + “Marinere! thou hast thy will:<br /> + “For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make<br /> + “My body and soul to be still.”<br /> + <br /> + Never sadder tale was told<br /> + To a man of woman born:<br /> + Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!<br /> + Thou’lt rise to morrow morn.<br /> + <br /> + Never sadder tale was heard<br /> + By a man of woman born:<br /> + The Marineres all return’d to work<br /> + As silent as beforne.<br /> + <br /> + The Marineres all ’gan pull the ropes,<br /> + But look at me they n’old:<br /> + Thought I, I am as thin as air—<br /> + They cannot me behold.<br /> + <br /> + Till noon we silently sail’d on<br /> + Yet never a breeze did breathe:<br /> + Slowly and smoothly went the ship<br /> + Mov’d onward from beneath.<br /> + <br /> + Under the keel nine fathom deep<br /> + From the land of mist and snow<br /> + The spirit slid: and it was He<br /> + That made the Ship to go.<br /> + The sails at noon left off their tune<br /> + And the Ship stood still also.<br /> + <br /> + The sun right up above the mast<br /> + Had fix’d her to the ocean:<br /> + But in a minute she ’gan stir<br /> + With a short uneasy motion—<br /> + Backwards and forwards half her length<br /> + With a short uneasy motion.<br /> + <br /> + Then, like a pawing horse let go,<br /> + She made a sudden bound:<br /> + It flung the blood into my head,<br /> + And I fell into a swound.<br /> + <br /> + How long in that same fit I lay,<br /> + I have not to declare;<br /> + But ere my living life return’d,<br /> + I heard and in my soul discern’d<br /> + Two voices in the air,<br /> + <br /> + “Is it he?” quoth one, “Is this the man?<br /> + “By him who died on cross,<br /> + “With his cruel bow he lay’d full low<br /> + “The harmless Albatross.<br /> + <br /> + “The spirit who ’bideth by himself<br /> + “In the land of mist and snow,<br /> + “He lov’d the bird that lov’d the man<br /> + “Who shot him with his bow.”<br /> + <br /> + The other was a softer voice,<br /> + As soft as honey-dew:<br /> + Quoth he the man hath penance done,<br /> + And penance more will do.<br /> + </p> + <h3>VI.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + FIRST VOICE.<br /> + “But tell me, tell me! speak again,<br /> + “Thy soft response renewing—<br /> + “What makes that ship drive on so fast?<br /> + “What is the Ocean doing?”<br /> + <br /> + SECOND VOICE.<br /> + “Still as a Slave before his Lord,<br /> + “The Ocean hath no blast:<br /> + “His great bright eye most silently<br /> + “Up to the moon is cast—<br /> + <br /> + “If he may know which way to go,<br /> + “For she guides him smooth or grim.<br /> + “See, brother, see! how graciously<br /> + “She looketh down on him.”<br /> + <br /> + FIRST VOICE.<br /> + “But why drives on that ship so fast<br /> + “Withouten wave or wind?”<br /> + SECOND VOICE.<br /> + “The air is cut away before,<br /> + “And closes from behind.<br /> + <br /> + “Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high,<br /> + “Or we shall be belated:<br /> + “For slow and slow that ship will go,<br /> + “When the Marinere’s trance is abated.”<br /> + <br /> + I woke, and we were sailing on<br /> + As in a gentle weather:<br /> + ’Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;<br /> + The dead men stood together.<br /> + <br /> + All stood together on the deck,<br /> + For a charnel-dungeon fitter:<br /> + All fix’d on me their stony eyes<br /> + That in the moon did glitter.<br /> + <br /> + The pang, the curse, with which they died,<br /> + Had never pass’d away:<br /> + I could not draw my een from theirs<br /> + Ne turn them up to pray.<br /> + <br /> + And in its time the spell was snapt,<br /> + And I could move my een:<br /> + I look’d far-forth, but little saw<br /> + Of what might else be seen.<br /> + <br /> + Like one, that on a lonely road<br /> + Doth walk in fear and dread,<br /> + And having once turn’d round, walks on<br /> + And turns no more his head:<br /> + Because he knows, a frightful fiend<br /> + Doth close behind him tread.<br /> + <br /> + But soon there breath’d a wind on me,<br /> + Ne sound ne motion made:<br /> + Its path was not upon the sea<br /> + In ripple or in shade.<br /> + <br /> + It rais’d my hair, it fann’d my cheek,<br /> + Like a meadow-gale of spring—<br /> + It mingled strangely with my fears,<br /> + Yet it felt like a welcoming.<br /> + <br /> + Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,<br /> + Yet she sail’d softly too:<br /> + Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—<br /> + On me alone it blew.<br /> + <br /> + O dream of joy! is this indeed<br /> + The light-house top I see?<br /> + Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?<br /> + Is this mine own countrée?<br /> + <br /> + We drifted o’er the Harbour-bar,<br /> + And I with sobs did pray—<br /> + “O let me be awake, my God!<br /> + “Or let me sleep alway!”<br /> + <br /> + The harbour-bay was clear as glass,<br /> + So smoothly it was strewn!<br /> + And on the bay the moon light lay,<br /> + And the shadow of the moon.<br /> + <br /> + The moonlight bay was white all o’er,<br /> + Till rising from the same,<br /> + Full many shapes, that shadows were,<br /> + Like as of torches came.<br /> + <br /> + A little distance from the prow<br /> + Those dark-red shadows were;<br /> + But soon I saw that my own flesh<br /> + Was red as in a glare.<br /> + <br /> + I turn’d my head in fear and dread,<br /> + And by the holy rood,<br /> + The bodies had advanc’d, and now<br /> + Before the mast they stood.<br /> + <br /> + They lifted up their stiff right arms,<br /> + They held them strait and tight;<br /> + And each right-arm burnt like a torch,<br /> + A torch that’s borne upright.<br /> + Their stony eye-balls glitter’d on<br /> + In the red and smoky light.<br /> + <br /> + I pray’d and turn’d my head away<br /> + Forth looking as before.<br /> + There was no breeze upon the bay,<br /> + No wave against the shore.<br /> + <br /> + The rock shone bright, the kirk no less<br /> + That stands above the rock:<br /> + The moonlight steep’d in silentness<br /> + The steady weathercock.<br /> + <br /> + And the bay was white with silent light,<br /> + Till rising from the same<br /> + Full many shapes, that shadows were,<br /> + In crimson colours came.<br /> + <br /> + A little distance from the prow<br /> + Those crimson shadows were:<br /> + I turn’d my eyes upon the deck—<br /> + O Christ! what saw I there?<br /> + <br /> + Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;<br /> + And by the Holy rood<br /> + A man all light, a seraph-man,<br /> + On every corse there stood.<br /> + <br /> + This seraph-band, each wav’d his hand:<br /> + It was a heavenly sight:<br /> + They stood as signals to the land,<br /> + Each one a lovely light:<br /> + <br /> + This seraph-band, each wav’d his hand,<br /> + No voice did they impart—<br /> + No voice; but O! the silence sank,<br /> + Like music on my heart.<br /> + <br /> + Eftsones I heard the dash of oars,<br /> + I heard the pilot’s cheer:<br /> + My head was turn’d perforce away<br /> + And I saw a boat appear.<br /> + <br /> + Then vanish’d all the lovely lights;<br /> + The bodies rose anew:<br /> + With silent pace, each to his place,<br /> + Came back the ghastly crew.<br /> + The wind, that shade nor motion made,<br /> + On me alone it blew.<br /> + <br /> + The pilot, and the pilot’s boy<br /> + I heard them coming fast:<br /> + Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy,<br /> + The dead men could not blast.<br /> + <br /> + I saw a third—I heard his voice:<br /> + It is the Hermit good!<br /> + He singeth loud his godly hymns<br /> + That he makes in the wood.<br /> + He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away<br /> + The Albatross’s blood.<br /> + </p> + <h3>VII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + This Hermit good lives in that wood<br /> + Which slopes down to the Sea.<br /> + How loudly his sweet voice he rears!<br /> + He loves to talk with Marineres<br /> + That come from a far Contrée.<br /> + <br /> + He kneels at morn and noon and eve—<br /> + He hath a cushion plump:<br /> + It is the moss, that wholly hides<br /> + The rotted old Oak-stump.<br /> + <br /> + The Skiff-boat ne’rd: I heard them talk,<br /> + “Why, this is strange, I trow!<br /> + “Where are those lights so many and fair<br /> + “That signal made but now?<br /> + <br /> + “Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said—<br /> + “And they answer’d not our cheer.<br /> + “The planks look warp’d, and see those sails<br /> + “How thin they are and sere!<br /> + “I never saw aught like to them<br /> + “Unless perchance it were<br /> + <br /> + “The skeletons of leaves that lag<br /> + “My forest brook along:<br /> + “When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow,<br /> + “And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below<br /> + “That eats the she-wolf’s young.<br /> + <br /> + “Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look”—<br /> + (The Pilot made reply)<br /> + “I am a-fear’d.—“Push on, push on!”<br /> + Said the Hermit cheerily.<br /> + <br /> + The Boat came closer to the Ship,<br /> + But I ne spake ne stirr’d!<br /> + The Boat came close beneath the Ship,<br /> + And strait a sound was heard!<br /> + <br /> + Under the water it rumbled on,<br /> + Still louder and more dread:<br /> + It reach’d the Ship, it split the bay;<br /> + The Ship went down like lead.<br /> + <br /> + Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound,<br /> + Which sky and ocean smote:<br /> + Like one that hath been seven days drown’d<br /> + My body lay afloat:<br /> + But, swift as dreams, myself I found<br /> + Within the Pilot’s boat.<br /> + <br /> + Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship,<br /> + The boat spun round and round:<br /> + And all was still, save that the hill<br /> + Was telling of the sound.<br /> + <br /> + I mov’d my lips: the Pilot shriek’d<br /> + And fell down in a fit.<br /> + The Holy Hermit rais’d his eyes<br /> + And pray’d where he did sit.<br /> + <br /> + I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,<br /> + Who now doth crazy go,<br /> + Laugh’d loud and long, and all the while<br /> + His eyes went to and fro,<br /> + “Ha! ha!” quoth he—“full plain I see,<br /> + “The devil knows how to row.”<br /> + <br /> + And now all in mine own Countrée<br /> + I stood on the firm land!<br /> + The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat,<br /> + And scarcely he could stand.<br /> + <br /> + “O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!”<br /> + The Hermit cross’d his brow—<br /> + “Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say<br /> + “What manner man art thou?”<br /> + <br /> + Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d<br /> + With a woeful agony,<br /> + Which forc’d me to begin my tale<br /> + And then it left me free.<br /> + <br /> + Since then at an uncertain hour,<br /> + Now oftimes and now fewer,<br /> + That anguish comes and makes me tell<br /> + My ghastly aventure.<br /> + <br /> + I pass, like night, from land to land;<br /> + I have strange power of speech;<br /> + The moment that his face I see<br /> + I know the man that must hear me;<br /> + To him my tale I teach.<br /> + <br /> + What loud uproar bursts from that door!<br /> + The Wedding-guests are there;<br /> + But in the Garden-bower the Bride<br /> + And Bride-maids singing are:<br /> + And hark the little Vesper-bell<br /> + Which biddeth me to prayer.<br /> + <br /> + O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been<br /> + Alone on a wide wide sea:<br /> + So lonely ’twas, that God himself<br /> + Scarce seemed there to be.<br /> + <br /> + O sweeter than the Marriage-feast,<br /> + ’Tis sweeter far to me<br /> + To walk together to the Kirk<br /> + With a goodly company.<br /> + <br /> + To walk together to the Kirk<br /> + And all together pray,<br /> + While each to his great father bends,<br /> + Old men, and babes, and loving friends,<br /> + And Youths, and Maidens gay.<br /> + <br /> + Farewell, farewell! but this I tell<br /> + To thee, thou wedding-guest!<br /> + He prayeth well who loveth well<br /> + Both man and bird and beast.<br /> + <br /> + He prayeth best who loveth best,<br /> + All things both great and small:<br /> + For the dear God, who loveth us,<br /> + He made and loveth all.<br /> + <br /> + The Marinere, whose eye is bright,<br /> + Whose beard with age is hoar,<br /> + Is gone; and now the wedding-guest<br /> + Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door.<br /> + <br /> + He went, like one that hath been stunn’d<br /> + And is of sense forlorn:<br /> + A sadder and a wiser man<br /> + He rose the morrow morn.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem2" name="poem2"></a>THE FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + FOSTER-MOTHER.<br /> + I never saw the man whom you describe.<br /> + <br /> + MARIA.<br /> + ’Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly<br /> + As mine and Albert’s common Foster-mother.<br /> + <br /> + FOSTER-MOTHER.<br /> + Now blessings on the man, whoe’er he be,<br /> + That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady,<br /> + As often as I think of those dear times<br /> + When you two little ones would stand at eve<br /> + On each side of my chair, and make me learn<br /> + All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk<br /> + In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you—<br /> + ’Tis more like heaven to come than what <i>has</i> been.<br /> + <br /> + MARIA.<br /> + O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me<br /> + Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon<br /> + Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,<br /> + Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye<br /> + She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!<br /> + <br /> + FOSTER-MOTHER.<br /> + Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!<br /> + <br /> + MARIA.<br /> + No one.<br /> + <br /> + FOSTER-MOTHER<br /> + My husband’s father told it me,<br /> + Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul!<br /> + He was a woodman, and could fell and saw<br /> + With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam<br /> + Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?<br /> + Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree<br /> + He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined<br /> + With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool<br /> + As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,<br /> + And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost.<br /> + And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,<br /> + A pretty boy, but most unteachable—<br /> + And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,<br /> + But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,<br /> + And whistled, as he were a bird himself:<br /> + And all the autumn ’twas his only play<br /> + To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them<br /> + With earth and water, on the stumps of trees.<br /> + A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,<br /> + A grey-haired man—he loved this little boy,<br /> + The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him,<br /> + He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,<br /> + Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.<br /> + So he became a very learned youth.<br /> + But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read,<br /> + ’Till his brain turned—and ere his twentieth year,<br /> + He had unlawful thoughts of many things:<br /> + And though he prayed, he never loved to pray<br /> + With holy men, nor in a holy place—<br /> + But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,<br /> + The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him.<br /> + And once, as by the north side of the Chapel<br /> + They stood together, chained in deep discourse,<br /> + The earth heaved under them with such a groan,<br /> + That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen<br /> + Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;<br /> + A fever seized him, and he made confession<br /> + Of all the heretical and lawless talk<br /> + Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized<br /> + And cast into that hole. My husband’s father<br /> + Sobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart:<br /> + And once as he was working in the cellar,<br /> + He heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’s,<br /> + Who sung a doleful song about green fields,<br /> + How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,<br /> + To hunt for food, and be a naked man,<br /> + And wander up and down at liberty.<br /> + He always doted on the youth, and now<br /> + His love grew desperate; and defying death,<br /> + He made that cunning entrance I described:<br /> + And the young man escaped.<br /> + <br /> + MARIA.<br /> + ’Tis + a sweet tale:<br /> + Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,<br /> + His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.—<br /> + And what became of him?<br /> + <br /> + FOSTER-MOTHER.<br /> + + He went on ship-board<br /> + With those bold voyagers, who made discovery<br /> + Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother<br /> + Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,<br /> + He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,<br /> + Soon after they arrived in that new world,<br /> + In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,<br /> + And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight<br /> + Up a great river, great as any sea,<br /> + And ne’er was heard of more: but ’tis supposed,<br /> + He lived and died among the savage men.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem3" name="poem3"></a>LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON + A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + —Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands<br /> + Far from all human dwelling: what if here<br /> + No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;<br /> + What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;<br /> + Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,<br /> + That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind<br /> + By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.<br /> + <br /> + —Who + he was<br /> + That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod<br /> + First covered o’er, and taught this aged tree,<br /> + Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,<br /> + I well remember.—He was one who own’d<br /> + No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d,<br /> + And big with lofty views, he to the world<br /> + Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint<br /> + Of dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate,<br /> + And scorn, against all enemies prepared,<br /> + All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped<br /> + At once, with rash disdain he turned away,<br /> + And with the food of pride sustained his soul<br /> + In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs<br /> + Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,<br /> + His only visitants a straggling sheep,<br /> + The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;<br /> + And on these barren rocks, with juniper,<br /> + And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,<br /> + Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour<br /> + A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here<br /> + An emblem of his own unfruitful life:<br /> + And lifting up his head, he then would gaze<br /> + On the more distant scene; how lovely ’tis<br /> + Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became<br /> + Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain<br /> + The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,<br /> + Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,<br /> + Warm from the labours of benevolence,<br /> + The world, and man himself, appeared a scene<br /> + Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh<br /> + With mournful joy, to think that others felt<br /> + What he must never feel: and so, lost man!<br /> + On visionary views would fancy feed,<br /> + Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale<br /> + He died, this seat his only monument.<br /> + <br /> + If thou be one whose heart the holy forms<br /> + Of young imagination have kept pure,<br /> + Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,<br /> + Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,<br /> + Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt<br /> + For any living thing, hath faculties<br /> + Which he has never used; that thought with him<br /> + Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye<br /> + Is ever on himself, doth look on one,<br /> + The least of nature’s works, one who might move<br /> + The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds<br /> + Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!<br /> + Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,<br /> + True dignity abides with him alone<br /> + Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,<br /> + Can still suspect, and still revere himself,<br /> + In lowliness of heart.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem4" name="poem4"></a>THE NIGHTINGALE;</h2> + <h3>A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + No cloud, no relique of the sunken day<br /> + Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip<br /> + Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.<br /> + Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!<br /> + You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,<br /> + But hear no murmuring: it flows silently<br /> + O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,<br /> + A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,<br /> + Yet let us think upon the vernal showers<br /> + That gladden the green earth, and we shall find<br /> + A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.<br /> + And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,<br /> + “Most musical, most melancholy” <a id="footnote1tag" name="footnote1tag"></a><a + href="#footnote1"><sup>1</sup></a> Bird!<br /> + A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!<br /> + In nature there is nothing melancholy.<br /> + —But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d<br /> + With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,<br /> + Or slow distemper or neglected love,<br /> + (And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himself<br /> + And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale<br /> + Of his own sorrows) he and such as he<br /> + First nam’d these notes a melancholy strain;<br /> + And many a poet echoes the conceit,<br /> + Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme<br /> + When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs<br /> + Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell<br /> + By sun or moonlight, to the influxes<br /> + Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements<br /> + Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song<br /> + And of his fame forgetful! so his fame<br /> + Should share in nature’s immortality,<br /> + A venerable thing! and so his song<br /> + Should make all nature lovelier, and itself<br /> + Be lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;<br /> + And youths and maidens most poetical<br /> + Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring<br /> + In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still<br /> + Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs<br /> + O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.<br /> + My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learnt<br /> + A different lore: we may not thus profane<br /> + Nature’s sweet voices always full of love<br /> + And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale<br /> + That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates<br /> + With fast thick warble his delicious notes,<br /> + As he were fearful, that an April night<br /> + Would be too short for him to utter forth<br /> + His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul<br /> + Of all its music! And I know a grove<br /> + Of large extent, hard by a castle huge<br /> + Which the great lord inhabits not: and so<br /> + This grove is wild with tangling underwood,<br /> + And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,<br /> + Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.<br /> + But never elsewhere in one place I knew<br /> + So many Nightingales: and far and near<br /> + In wood and thicket over the wide grove<br /> + They answer and provoke each other’s songs—<br /> + With skirmish and capricious passagings,<br /> + And murmurs musical and swift jug jug<br /> + And one low piping sound more sweet than all—<br /> + Stirring the air with such an harmony,<br /> + That should you close your eyes, you might almost<br /> + Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,<br /> + Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos’d,<br /> + You may perchance behold them on the twigs,<br /> + Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,<br /> + Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade<br /> + Lights up her love-torch.<br /> + <br /> + + A most gentle maid<br /> + Who dwelleth in her hospitable home<br /> + Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,<br /> + (Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate<br /> + To something more than nature in the grove)<br /> + Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes,<br /> + That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,<br /> + What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,<br /> + Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon<br /> + Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky<br /> + With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds<br /> + Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,<br /> + As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept<br /> + An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d<br /> + Many a Nightingale perch giddily<br /> + On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,<br /> + And to that motion tune his wanton song,<br /> + Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.<br /> + <br /> + Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,<br /> + And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!<br /> + We have been loitering long and pleasantly,<br /> + And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!<br /> + Full fain it would delay me!—My dear Babe,<br /> + Who, capable of no articulate sound,<br /> + Mars all things with his imitative lisp,<br /> + How he would place his hand beside his ear,<br /> + His little hand, the small forefinger up,<br /> + And bid us listen! And I deem it wise<br /> + To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well<br /> + The evening star: and once when he awoke<br /> + In most distressful mood (some inward pain<br /> + Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)<br /> + I hurried with him to our orchard plot,<br /> + And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once<br /> + Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,<br /> + While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears<br /> + Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—<br /> + It is a father’s tale. But if that Heaven<br /> + Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up<br /> + Familiar with these songs, that with the night<br /> + He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,<br /> + Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.<br /> + </p> + <p class="footnote"><a id="footnote1" name="footnote1"></a><b>Footnote 1</b> <a + href="#footnote1tag">(return)</a>: “<i>Most musical, most melancholy</i>.” This + passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: + it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a + <i>dramatic</i> propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the + charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none + could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.</p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem5" name="poem5"></a>THE FEMALE VAGRANT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood,<br /> + (The Woman thus her artless story told)<br /> + One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood<br /> + Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.<br /> + Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll’d:<br /> + With thoughtless joy I stretch’d along the shore<br /> + My father’s nets, or watched, when from the fold<br /> + High o’er the cliffs I led my fleecy store,<br /> + A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar.<br /> + <br /> + My father was a good and pious man,<br /> + An honest man by honest parents bred,<br /> + And I believe that, soon as I began<br /> + To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,<br /> + And in his hearing there my prayers I said:<br /> + And afterwards, by my good father taught,<br /> + I read, and loved the books in which I read;<br /> + For books in every neighbouring house I sought,<br /> + And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.<br /> + <br /> + Can I forget what charms did once adorn<br /> + My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,<br /> + And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?<br /> + The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;<br /> + The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;<br /> + My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce espied;<br /> + The cowslip-gathering at May’s dewy prime;<br /> + The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,<br /> + From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.<br /> + <br /> + The staff I yet remember which upbore<br /> + The bending body of my active sire;<br /> + His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore<br /> + When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;<br /> + When market-morning came, the neat attire<br /> + With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck’d;<br /> + My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,<br /> + When stranger passed, so often I have check’d;<br /> + The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck’d.<br /> + <br /> + The suns of twenty summers danced along,—<br /> + Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:<br /> + Then rose a mansion proud our woods among,<br /> + And cottage after cottage owned its sway,<br /> + No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray<br /> + Through pastures not his own, the master took;<br /> + My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;<br /> + He loved his old hereditary nook,<br /> + And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.<br /> + <br /> + But, when he had refused the proffered gold,<br /> + To cruel injuries he became a prey,<br /> + Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold:<br /> + His troubles grew upon him day by day,<br /> + Till all his substance fell into decay.<br /> + His little range of water was denied; <a id="footnote2tag" name="footnote2tag"></a><a href="#footnote2"><sup>2</sup></a><br /> + All but the bed where his old body lay,<br /> + All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,<br /> + We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.<br /> + <br /> + Can I forget that miserable hour,<br /> + When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,<br /> + Peering above the trees, the steeple tower,<br /> + That on his marriage-day sweet music made?<br /> + Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,<br /> + Close by my mother in their native bowers:<br /> + Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,—<br /> + I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers,<br /> + Glimmer’d our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!<br /> + <br /> + There was a youth whom I had loved so long,<br /> + That when I loved him not I cannot say.<br /> + ’Mid the green mountains many and many a song<br /> + We two had sung, like little birds in May.<br /> + When we began to tire of childish play<br /> + We seemed still more and more to prize each other:<br /> + We talked of marriage and our marriage day;<br /> + And I in truth did love him like a brother,<br /> + For never could I hope to meet with such another.<br /> + <br /> + His father said, that to a distant town<br /> + He must repair, to ply the artist’s trade.<br /> + What tears of bitter grief till then unknown!<br /> + What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!<br /> + To him we turned:—we had no other aid.<br /> + Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,<br /> + And her whom he had loved in joy, he said<br /> + He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;<br /> + And in a quiet home once more my father slept.<br /> + <br /> + Four years each day with daily bread was blest,<br /> + By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.<br /> + Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;<br /> + And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,<br /> + And knew not why. My happy father died<br /> + When sad distress reduced the children’s meal:<br /> + Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide<br /> + The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,<br /> + And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.<br /> + <br /> + ’Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;<br /> + We had no hope, and no relief could gain.<br /> + But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum<br /> + Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.<br /> + My husband’s arms now only served to strain<br /> + Me and his children hungering in his view:<br /> + In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:<br /> + To join those miserable men he flew;<br /> + And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.<br /> + <br /> + There foul neglect for months and months we bore,<br /> + Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.<br /> + Green fields before us and our native shore,<br /> + By fever, from polluted air incurred,<br /> + Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.<br /> + Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,<br /> + ’Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr’d,<br /> + That happier days we never more must view:<br /> + The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew,<br /> + <br /> + But from delay the summer calms were past.<br /> + On as we drove, the equinoctial deep<br /> + Ran mountains—high before the howling blaft.<br /> + We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep<br /> + Of them that perished in the whirlwind’s sweep,<br /> + Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,<br /> + Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,<br /> + That we the mercy of the waves should rue.<br /> + We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.<br /> + <br /> + Oh! dreadful price of being to resign<br /> + All that is dear <i>in</i> being! better far<br /> + In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine,<br /> + Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;<br /> + Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,<br /> + Better our dying bodies to obtrude,<br /> + Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,<br /> + Protract a curst existence, with the brood<br /> + That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother’s blood.<br /> + <br /> + The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,<br /> + Disease and famine, agony and fear,<br /> + In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,<br /> + It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.<br /> + All perished—all, in one remorseless year,<br /> + Husband and children! one by one, by sword<br /> + And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear<br /> + Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board<br /> + A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.<br /> + <br /> + Peaceful as some immeasurable plain<br /> + By the first beams of dawning light impress’d,<br /> + In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main.<br /> + The very ocean has its hour of rest,<br /> + That comes not to the human mourner’s breast.<br /> + Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,<br /> + A heavenly silence did the waves invest;<br /> + I looked and looked along the silent air,<br /> + Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.<br /> + <br /> + Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps!<br /> + And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke,<br /> + Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps!<br /> + The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!<br /> + The shriek that from the distant battle broke!<br /> + The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host<br /> + Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunder-stroke<br /> + To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d,<br /> + Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!<br /> + <br /> + Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,<br /> + When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,<br /> + While like a sea the storming army came,<br /> + And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape,<br /> + And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape<br /> + Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!<br /> + But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!<br /> + —For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,<br /> + And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.<br /> + <br /> + Some mighty gulph of separation past,<br /> + I seemed transported to another world:—<br /> + A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast<br /> + The impatient mariner the sail unfurl’d,<br /> + And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled<br /> + The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,<br /> + And from all hope I was forever hurled.<br /> + For me—farthest from earthly port to roam<br /> + Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.<br /> + <br /> + And oft, robb’d of my perfect mind, I thought<br /> + At last my feet a resting-place had found:<br /> + Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,)<br /> + Roaming the illimitable waters round;<br /> + Here watch, of every human friend disowned,<br /> + All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood—<br /> + To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:<br /> + And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,<br /> + And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.<br /> + <br /> + By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,<br /> + Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock;<br /> + Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,<br /> + Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.<br /> + I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock<br /> + From the cross timber of an out-house hung;<br /> + How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock!<br /> + At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,<br /> + Nor to the beggar’s language could I frame my tongue.<br /> + <br /> + So passed another day, and so the third:<br /> + Then did I try, in vain, the crowd’s resort,<br /> + In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr’d,<br /> + Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort:<br /> + There, pains which nature could no more support,<br /> + With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;<br /> + Dizzy my brain, with interruption short<br /> + Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,<br /> + And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.<br /> + <br /> + Recovery came with food: but still, my brain<br /> + Was weak, nor of the past had memory.<br /> + I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain<br /> + Of many things which never troubled me;<br /> + Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,<br /> + Of looks where common kindness had no part,<br /> + Of service done with careless cruelty,<br /> + Fretting the fever round the languid heart,<br /> + And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.<br /> + <br /> + These things just served to stir the torpid sense,<br /> + Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.<br /> + Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence<br /> + Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,<br /> + At houses, men, and common light, amazed.<br /> + The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired,<br /> + Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;<br /> + The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,<br /> + And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.<br /> + <br /> + My heart is touched to think that men like these,<br /> + The rude earth’s tenants, were my first relief:<br /> + How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!<br /> + And their long holiday that feared not grief,<br /> + For all belonged to all, and each was chief.<br /> + No plough their sinews strained; on grating road<br /> + No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf<br /> + In every vale for their delight was stowed:<br /> + For them, in nature’s meads, the milky udder flowed.<br /> + <br /> + Semblance, with straw and pauniered ass, they made<br /> + Of potters wandering on from door to door:<br /> + But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,<br /> + And other joys my fancy to allure;<br /> + The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor<br /> + In barn uplighted, and companions boon<br /> + Well met from far with revelry secure,<br /> + In depth of forest glade, when jocund June<br /> + Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.<br /> + <br /> + But ill it suited me, in journey dark<br /> + O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;<br /> + To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark.<br /> + Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch;<br /> + The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,<br /> + The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,<br /> + And ear still busy on its nightly watch,<br /> + Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill;<br /> + Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.<br /> + <br /> + What could I do, unaided and unblest?<br /> + Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:<br /> + And kindred of dead husband are at best<br /> + Small help, and, after marriage such as mine,<br /> + With little kindness would to me incline.<br /> + Ill was I then for toil or service fit:<br /> + With tears whose course no effort could confine,<br /> + By high-way side forgetful would I sit<br /> + Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.<br /> + <br /> + I lived upon the mercy of the fields,<br /> + And oft of cruelty the sky accused;<br /> + On hazard, or what general bounty yields,<br /> + Now coldly given, now utterly refused,<br /> + The fields I for my bed have often used:<br /> + But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth<br /> + Is, that I have my inner self abused,<br /> + Foregone the home delight of constant truth,<br /> + And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.<br /> + <br /> + Three years a wanderer, often have I view’d,<br /> + In tears, the sun towards that country tend<br /> + Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:<br /> + And now across this moor my steps I bend—<br /> + Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend<br /> + Have I.—She ceased, and weeping turned away,<br /> + As if because her tale was at an end<br /> + She wept;—because she had no more to say<br /> + Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.<br /> + </p> + <p class="footnote"><a id="footnote2" name="footnote2"></a><b>Footnote 2</b> <a + href="#footnote2tag">(return)</a>: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are + let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from + rock to rock.</p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem6" name="poem6"></a>GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?<br /> + What is’t that ails young Harry Gill?<br /> + That evermore his teeth they chatter,<br /> + Chatter, chatter, chatter still.<br /> + Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,<br /> + Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;<br /> + He has a blanket on his back,<br /> + And coats enough to smother nine.<br /> + <br /> + In March, December, and in July,<br /> + “Tis all the same with Harry Gill;<br /> + The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,<br /> + His teeth they chatter, chatter still.<br /> + At night, at morning, and at noon,<br /> + ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill;<br /> + Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,<br /> + His teeth they chatter, chatter still.<br /> + <br /> + Young Harry was a lusty drover,<br /> + And who so stout of limb as he?<br /> + His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,<br /> + His voice was like the voice of three.<br /> + Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,<br /> + Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad;<br /> + And any man who pass’d her door,<br /> + Might see how poor a hut she had.<br /> + <br /> + All day she spun in her poor dwelling,<br /> + And then her three hours’ work at night!<br /> + Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling,<br /> + It would not pay for candle-light.<br /> + —This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,<br /> + Her hut was on a cold hill-side,<br /> + And in that country coals are dear,<br /> + For they come far by wind and tide.<br /> + <br /> + By the same fire to boil their pottage,<br /> + Two poor old dames, as I have known,<br /> + Will often live in one small cottage,<br /> + But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.<br /> + ’Twas well enough when summer came,<br /> + The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,<br /> + Then at her door the <i>canty</i> dame<br /> + Would sit, as any linnet gay.<br /> + <br /> + But when the ice our streams did fetter,<br /> + Oh! then how her old bones would shake!<br /> + You would have said, if you had met her,<br /> + ’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.<br /> + Her evenings then were dull and dead;<br /> + Sad case it was, as you may think,<br /> + For very cold to go to bed,<br /> + And then for cold not sleep a wink.<br /> + <br /> + Oh joy for her! when e’er in winter<br /> + The winds at night had made a rout,<br /> + And scatter’d many a lusty splinter,<br /> + And many a rotten bough about.<br /> + Yet never had she, well or sick,<br /> + As every man who knew her says,<br /> + A pile before-hand, wood or stick,<br /> + Enough to warm her for three days.<br /> + <br /> + Now, when the frost was past enduring,<br /> + And made her poor old bones to ache,<br /> + Could any thing be more alluring,<br /> + Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?<br /> + And now and then, it must be said,<br /> + When her old bones were cold and chill,<br /> + She left her fire, or left her bed,<br /> + To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.<br /> + <br /> + Now Harry he had long suspected<br /> + This trespass of old Goody Blake,<br /> + And vow’d that she should be detected,<br /> + And he on her would vengeance take.<br /> + And oft from his warm fire he’d go,<br /> + And to the fields his road would take,<br /> + And there, at night, in frost and snow,<br /> + He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.<br /> + <br /> + And once, behind a rick of barley,<br /> + Thus looking out did Harry stand;<br /> + The moon was full and shining clearly,<br /> + And crisp with frost the stubble-land.<br /> + —He hears a noise—he’s all awake—<br /> + Again?—on tip-toe down the hill<br /> + He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake,<br /> + She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.<br /> + <br /> + Right glad was he when he beheld her:<br /> + Stick after stick did Goody pull,<br /> + He stood behind a bush of elder,<br /> + Till she had filled her apron full.<br /> + When with her load she turned about,<br /> + The bye-road back again to take,<br /> + He started forward with a shout,<br /> + And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.<br /> + <br /> + And fiercely by the arm he took her,<br /> + And by the arm he held her fast,<br /> + And fiercely by the arm he shook her,<br /> + And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!”<br /> + Then Goody, who had nothing said,<br /> + Her bundle from her lap let fall;<br /> + And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d<br /> + To God that is the judge of all.<br /> + <br /> + She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing,<br /> + While Harry held her by the arm—<br /> + “God! who art never out of hearing,<br /> + “O may he never more be warm!”<br /> + The cold, cold moon above her head,<br /> + Thus on her knees did Goody pray,<br /> + Young Harry heard what she had said,<br /> + And icy-cold he turned away.<br /> + <br /> + He went complaining all the morrow<br /> + That he was cold and very chill:<br /> + His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,<br /> + Alas! that day for Harry Gill!<br /> + That day he wore a riding-coat,<br /> + But not a whit the warmer he:<br /> + Another was on Thursday brought,<br /> + And ere the Sabbath he had three.<br /> + <br /> + ’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,<br /> + And blankets were about him pinn’d;<br /> + Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,<br /> + Like a loose casement in the wind.<br /> + And Harry’s flesh it fell away;<br /> + And all who see him say ’tis plain,<br /> + That, live as long as live he may,<br /> + He never will be warm again.<br /> + <br /> + No word to any man he utters,<br /> + A-bed or up, to young or old;<br /> + But ever to himself he mutters,<br /> + “Poor Harry Gill is very cold.”<br /> + A-bed or up, by night or day;<br /> + His teeth they chatter, chatter still.<br /> + Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,<br /> + Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem7" name="poem7"></a>LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE + PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + It is the first mild day of March:<br /> + Each minute sweeter than before,<br /> + The red-breast sings from the tall larch<br /> + That stands beside our door.<br /> + <br /> + There is a blessing in the air,<br /> + Which seems a sense of joy to yield<br /> + To the bare trees, and mountains bare,<br /> + And grass in the green field.<br /> + <br /> + My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine)<br /> + Now that our morning meal is done,<br /> + Make haste, your morning task resign;<br /> + Come forth and feel the sun.<br /> + <br /> + Edward will come with you, and pray,<br /> + Put on with speed your woodland dress,<br /> + And bring no book, for this one day<br /> + We’ll give to idleness.<br /> + <br /> + No joyless forms shall regulate<br /> + Our living Calendar:<br /> + We from to-day, my friend, will date<br /> + The opening of the year.<br /> + <br /> + Love, now an universal birth.<br /> + From heart to heart is stealing,<br /> + From earth to man, from man to earth,<br /> + —It is the hour of feeling.<br /> + <br /> + One moment now may give us more<br /> + Than fifty years of reason;<br /> + Our minds shall drink at every pore<br /> + The spirit of the season.<br /> + <br /> + Some silent laws our hearts may make,<br /> + Which they shall long obey;<br /> + We for the year to come may take<br /> + Our temper from to-day.<br /> + <br /> + And from the blessed power that rolls<br /> + About, below, above;<br /> + We’ll frame the measure of our souls,<br /> + They shall be tuned to love.<br /> + <br /> + Then come, my sister! come, I pray,<br /> + With speed put on your woodland dress,<br /> + And bring no book; for this one day<br /> + We’ll give to idleness.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem8" name="poem8"></a>SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + In the sweet shire of Cardigan,<br /> + Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,<br /> + An old man dwells, a little man,<br /> + I’ve heard he once was tall.<br /> + Of years he has upon his back,<br /> + No doubt, a burthen weighty;<br /> + He says he is three score and ten,<br /> + But others say he’s eighty.<br /> + <br /> + A long blue livery-coat has he,<br /> + That’s fair behind, and fair before;<br /> + Yet, meet him where you will, you see<br /> + At once that he is poor.<br /> + Full five and twenty years he lived<br /> + A running huntsman merry;<br /> + And, though he has but one eye left,<br /> + His cheek is like a cherry.<br /> + <br /> + No man like him the horn could sound.<br /> + And no man was so full of glee;<br /> + To say the least, four counties round<br /> + Had heard of Simon Lee;<br /> + His master’s dead, and no one now<br /> + Dwells in the hall of Ivor;<br /> + Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;<br /> + He is the sole survivor.<br /> + <br /> + His hunting feats have him bereft<br /> + Of his right eye, as you may see:<br /> + And then, what limbs those feats have left<br /> + To poor old Simon Lee!<br /> + He has no son, he has no child,<br /> + His wife, an aged woman,<br /> + Lives with him, near the waterfall,<br /> + Upon the village common.<br /> + <br /> + And he is lean and he is sick,<br /> + His little body’s half awry<br /> + His ancles they are swoln and thick<br /> + His legs are thin and dry.<br /> + When he was young he little knew<br /> + Of husbandry or tillage;<br /> + And now he’s forced to work, though weak,<br /> + —The weakest in the village.<br /> + <br /> + He all the country could outrun,<br /> + Could leave both man and horse behind;<br /> + And often, ere the race was done,<br /> + He reeled and was stone-blind.<br /> + And still there’s something in the world<br /> + At which his heart rejoices;<br /> + For when the chiming hounds are out,<br /> + He dearly loves their voices!<br /> + <br /> + Old Ruth works out of doors with him,<br /> + And does what Simon cannot do;<br /> + For she, not over stout of limb,<br /> + Is stouter of the two.<br /> + And though you with your utmost skill<br /> + From labour could not wean them,<br /> + Alas! ’tis very little, all<br /> + Which they can do between them.<br /> + <br /> + Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,<br /> + Not twenty paces from the door,<br /> + A scrap of land they have, but they<br /> + Are poorest of the poor.<br /> + This scrap of land he from the heath<br /> + Enclosed when he was stronger;<br /> + But what avails the land to them,<br /> + Which they can till no longer?<br /> + <br /> + Few months of life has he in store,<br /> + As he to you will tell,<br /> + For still, the more he works, the more<br /> + His poor old ancles swell.<br /> + My gentle reader, I perceive<br /> + How patiently you’ve waited,<br /> + And I’m afraid that you expect<br /> + Some tale will be related.<br /> + <br /> + O reader! had you in your mind<br /> + Such stores as silent thought can bring,<br /> + O gentle reader! you would find<br /> + A tale in every thing.<br /> + What more I have to say is short,<br /> + I hope you’ll kindly take it;<br /> + It is no tale; but should you think,<br /> + Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.<br /> + <br /> + One summer-day I chanced to see<br /> + This old man doing all he could<br /> + About the root of an old tree,<br /> + A stump of rotten wood.<br /> + The mattock totter’d in his hand;<br /> + So vain was his endeavour<br /> + That at the root of the old tree<br /> + He might have worked for ever.<br /> + <br /> + “You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,<br /> + Give me your tool” to him I said;<br /> + And at the word right gladly he<br /> + Received my proffer’d aid.<br /> + I struck, and with a single blow<br /> + The tangled root I sever’d,<br /> + At which the poor old man so long<br /> + And vainly had endeavour’d.<br /> + <br /> + The tears into his eyes were brought,<br /> + And thanks and praises seemed to run<br /> + So fast out of his heart, I thought<br /> + They never would have done.<br /> + —I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds<br /> + With coldness still returning.<br /> + Alas! the gratitude of men<br /> + Has oftner left me mourning.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem9" name="poem9"></a>ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + I have a boy of five years old,<br /> + His face is fair and fresh to see;<br /> + His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,<br /> + And dearly he loves me.<br /> + <br /> + One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,<br /> + Our quiet house all full in view,<br /> + And held such intermitted talk<br /> + As we are wont to do.<br /> + <br /> + My thoughts on former pleasures ran;<br /> + I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,<br /> + My pleasant home, when spring began,<br /> + A long, long year before.<br /> + <br /> + A day it was when I could bear<br /> + To think, and think, and think again;<br /> + With so much happiness to spare,<br /> + I could not feel a pain.<br /> + <br /> + My boy was by my side, so slim<br /> + And graceful in his rustic dress!<br /> + And oftentimes I talked to him,<br /> + In very idleness.<br /> + <br /> + The young lambs ran a pretty race;<br /> + The morning sun shone bright and warm;<br /> + “Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,<br /> + “And so is Liswyn farm.<br /> + <br /> + “My little boy, which like you more,”<br /> + I said and took him by the arm—<br /> + “Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,<br /> + “Or here at Liswyn farm?”<br /> + <br /> + “And tell me, had you rather be,”<br /> + I said and held him by the arm,<br /> + “At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,<br /> + “Or here at Liswyn farm?”<br /> + <br /> + In careless mood he looked at me,<br /> + While still I held him by the arm,<br /> + And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be<br /> + “Than here at Liswyn farm.”<br /> + <br /> + “Now, little Edward, say why so;<br /> + My little Edward, tell me why;”<br /> + “I cannot tell, I do not know,”<br /> + “Why this is strange,” said I.<br /> + <br /> + “For, here are woods and green-hills warm;<br /> + “There surely must some reason be<br /> + “Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm<br /> + “For Kilve by the green sea.”<br /> + <br /> + At this, my boy, so fair and slim,<br /> + Hung down his head, nor made reply;<br /> + And five times did I say to him,<br /> + “Why? Edward, tell me why?”<br /> + <br /> + His head he raised—there was in sight,<br /> + It caught his eye, he saw it plain—<br /> + Upon the house-top, glittering bright,<br /> + A broad and gilded vane.<br /> + <br /> + Then did the boy his tongue unlock,<br /> + And thus to me he made reply;<br /> + “At Kilve there was no weather-cock,<br /> + “And that’s the reason why.”<br /> + <br /> + Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart<br /> + For better lore would seldom yearn,<br /> + Could I but teach the hundredth part<br /> + Of what from thee I learn.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem10" name="poem10"></a>WE ARE SEVEN.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + A simple child, dear brother Jim,<br /> + That lightly draws its breath,<br /> + And feels its life in every limb,<br /> + What should it know of death?<br /> + <br /> + I met a little cottage girl,<br /> + She was eight years old, she said;<br /> + Her hair was thick with many a curl<br /> + That cluster’d round her head.<br /> + <br /> + She had a rustic, woodland air,<br /> + And she was wildly clad;<br /> + Her eyes were fair, and very fair,<br /> + —Her beauty made me glad.<br /> + <br /> + “Sisters and brothers, little maid,<br /> + “How many may you be?”<br /> + “How many? seven in all,” she said,<br /> + And wondering looked at me.<br /> + <br /> + “And where are they, I pray you tell?”<br /> + She answered, “Seven are we,<br /> + “And two of us at Conway dwell,<br /> + “And two are gone to sea.<br /> + <br /> + “Two of us in the church-yard lie,<br /> + “My sister and my brother,<br /> + “And in the church-yard cottage, I<br /> + “Dwell near them with my mother.”<br /> + <br /> + “You say that two at Conway dwell,<br /> + “And two are gone to sea,<br /> + “Yet you are seven; I pray you tell<br /> + “Sweet Maid, how this may be?”<br /> + <br /> + Then did the little Maid reply,<br /> + “Seven boys and girls are we;<br /> + “Two of us in the church-yard lie,<br /> + “Beneath the church-yard tree.”<br /> + <br /> + “You run about, my little maid,<br /> + “Your limbs they are alive;<br /> + “If two are in the church-yard laid,<br /> + “Then ye are only five.”<br /> + <br /> + “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”<br /> + The little Maid replied,<br /> + “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,<br /> + “And they are side by side.<br /> + <br /> + “My stockings there I often knit,<br /> + “My ’kerchief there I hem;<br /> + “And there upon the ground I sit—<br /> + “I sit and sing to them.<br /> + <br /> + “And often after sunset, Sir,<br /> + “When it is light and fair,<br /> + “I take my little porringer,<br /> + “And eat my supper there.<br /> + <br /> + “The first that died was little Jane;<br /> + “In bed she moaning lay,<br /> + “Till God released her of her pain,<br /> + “And then she went away.<br /> + <br /> + “So in the church-yard she was laid,<br /> + “And all the summer dry,<br /> + “Together round her grave we played,<br /> + “My brother John and I.<br /> + <br /> + “And when the ground was white with snow,<br /> + “And I could run and slide,<br /> + “My brother John was forced to go,<br /> + “And he lies by her side.”<br /> + <br /> + “How many are you then,” said I,<br /> + “If they two are in Heaven?”<br /> + The little Maiden did reply,<br /> + “O Master! we are seven.”<br /> + <br /> + “But they are dead; those two are dead!<br /> + “Their spirits are in heaven!”<br /> + ’Twas throwing words away; for still<br /> + The little Maid would have her will,<br /> + And said, “Nay, we are seven!”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem11" name="poem11"></a>LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + I heard a thousand blended notes,<br /> + While in a grove I sate reclined,<br /> + In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts<br /> + Bring sad thoughts to the mind.<br /> + <br /> + To her fair works did nature link<br /> + The human soul that through me ran;<br /> + And much it griev’d my heart to think<br /> + What man has made of man.<br /> + <br /> + Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,<br /> + The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes;<br /> + And ’tis my faith that every flower<br /> + Enjoys the air it breathes.<br /> + <br /> + The birds around me hopp’d and play’d:<br /> + Their thoughts I cannot measure,<br /> + But the least motion which they made,<br /> + It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.<br /> + <br /> + The budding twigs spread out their fan,<br /> + To catch the breezy air;<br /> + And I must think, do all I can,<br /> + That there was pleasure there.<br /> + <br /> + If I these thoughts may not prevent,<br /> + If such be of my creed the plan,<br /> + Have I not reason to lament<br /> + What man has made of man?<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem12" name="poem12"></a>THE THORN.</h2> + <h3>I.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + There is a thorn; it looks so old,<br /> + In truth you’d find it hard to say,<br /> + How it could ever have been young,<br /> + It looks so old and grey.<br /> + Not higher than a two-years’ child,<br /> + It stands erect this aged thorn;<br /> + No leaves it has, no thorny points;<br /> + It is a mass of knotted joints,<br /> + A wretched thing forlorn.<br /> + It stands erect, and like a stone<br /> + With lichens it is overgrown.<br /> + </p> + <h3>II.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown<br /> + With lichens to the very top,<br /> + And hung with heavy tufts of moss,<br /> + A melancholy crop:<br /> + Up from the earth these mosses creep,<br /> + And this poor thorn they clasp it round<br /> + So close, you’d say that they were bent<br /> + With plain and manifest intent,<br /> + To drag it to the ground;<br /> + And all had joined in one endeavour<br /> + To bury this poor thorn for ever.<br /> + </p> + <h3>III.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + High on a mountain’s highest ridge,<br /> + Where oft the stormy winter gale<br /> + Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds<br /> + It sweeps from vale to vale;<br /> + Not five yards from the mountain-path,<br /> + This thorn you on your left espy;<br /> + And to the left, three yards beyond,<br /> + You see a little muddy pond<br /> + Of water, never dry;<br /> + I’ve measured it from side to side:<br /> + ’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.<br /> + </p> + <h3>IV.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + And close beside this aged thorn,<br /> + There is a fresh and lovely sight,<br /> + A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,<br /> + Just half a foot in height.<br /> + All lovely colours there you see,<br /> + All colours that were ever seen,<br /> + And mossy network too is there,<br /> + As if by hand of lady fair<br /> + The work had woven been,<br /> + And cups, the darlings of the eye,<br /> + So deep is their vermilion dye.<br /> + </p> + <h3>V.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + Ah me! what lovely tints are there!<br /> + Of olive-green and scarlet bright,<br /> + In spikes, in branches, and in stars,<br /> + Green, red, and pearly white.<br /> + This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss<br /> + Which close beside the thorn you see,<br /> + So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,<br /> + Is like an infant’s grave in size<br /> + As like as like can be:<br /> + But never, never any where,<br /> + An infant’s grave was half so fair.<br /> + </p> + <h3>VI.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + Now would you see this aged thorn,<br /> + This pond and beauteous hill of moss,<br /> + You must take care and chuse your time<br /> + The mountain when to cross.<br /> + For oft there sits, between the heap<br /> + That’s like an infant’s grave in size,<br /> + And that same pond of which I spoke,<br /> + A woman in a scarlet cloak,<br /> + And to herself she cries,<br /> + “Oh misery! oh misery!<br /> + “Oh woe is me! oh misery!”<br /> + </p> + <h3>VII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + At all times of the day and night<br /> + This wretched woman thither goes,<br /> + And she is known to every star,<br /> + And every wind that blows;<br /> + And there beside the thorn she sits<br /> + When the blue day-light’s in the skies,<br /> + And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,<br /> + Or frosty air is keen and still,<br /> + And to herself she cries,<br /> + “Oh misery! oh misery!<br /> + “Oh woe is me! oh misery!”<br /> + </p> + <h3>VIII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + “Now wherefore thus, by day and night,<br /> + “In rain, in tempest, and in snow,<br /> + “Thus to the dreary mountain-top<br /> + “Does this poor woman go?<br /> + “And why sits she beside the thorn<br /> + “When the blue day-light’s in the sky,<br /> + “Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,<br /> + “Or frosty air is keen and still,<br /> + “And wherefore does she cry?—<br /> + “Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why<br /> + “Does she repeat that doleful cry?”<br /> + </p> + <h3>IX.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I cannot tell; I wish I could;<br /> + For the true reason no one knows,<br /> + But if you’d gladly view the spot,<br /> + The spot to which she goes;<br /> + The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,<br /> + The pond—and thorn, so old and grey,<br /> + Pass by her door—’tis seldom shut—<br /> + And if you see her in her hut,<br /> + Then to the spot away!—<br /> + I never heard of such as dare<br /> + Approach the spot when she is there.<br /> + </p> + <h3>X.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + “But wherefore to the mountain-top<br /> + “Can this unhappy woman go,<br /> + “Whatever star is in the skies,<br /> + “Whatever wind may blow?”<br /> + Nay rack your brain—’tis all in vain,<br /> + I’ll tell you every thing I know;<br /> + But to the thorn, and to the pond<br /> + Which is a little step beyond,<br /> + I wish that you would go:<br /> + Perhaps when you are at the place<br /> + You something of her tale may trace.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XI.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I’ll give you the best help I can:<br /> + Before you up the mountain go,<br /> + Up to the dreary mountain-top,<br /> + I’ll tell you all I know.<br /> + Tis now some two and twenty years,<br /> + Since she (her name is Martha Ray)<br /> + Gave with a maiden’s true good will<br /> + Her company to Stephen Hill;<br /> + And she was blithe and gay,<br /> + And she was happy, happy still<br /> + Whene’er she thought of Stephen Hill.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + And they had fix’d the wedding-day,<br /> + The morning that must wed them both;<br /> + But Stephen to another maid<br /> + Had sworn another oath;<br /> + And with this other maid to church<br /> + Unthinking Stephen went—<br /> + Poor Martha! on that woful day<br /> + A cruel, cruel fire, they say,<br /> + Into her bones was sent:<br /> + It dried her body like a cinder,<br /> + And almost turn’d her brain to tinder.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XIII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + They say, full six months after this,<br /> + While yet the summer-leaves were green,<br /> + She to the mountain-top would go,<br /> + And there was often seen.<br /> + ’Tis said, a child was in her womb,<br /> + As now to any eye was plain;<br /> + She was with child, and she was mad,<br /> + Yet often she was sober sad<br /> + From her exceeding pain.<br /> + Oh me! ten thousand times I’d rather<br /> + That he had died, that cruel father!<br /> + </p> + <h3>XIV.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + Sad case for such a brain to hold<br /> + Communion with a stirring child!<br /> + Sad case, as you may think, for one<br /> + Who had a brain so wild!<br /> + Last Christmas when we talked of this,<br /> + Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,<br /> + That in her womb the infant wrought<br /> + About its mother’s heart, and brought<br /> + Her senses back again:<br /> + And when at last her time drew near,<br /> + Her looks were calm, her senses clear.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XV.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + No more I know, I wish I did,<br /> + And I would tell it all to you;<br /> + For what became of this poor child<br /> + There’s none that ever knew:<br /> + And if a child was born or no,<br /> + There’s no one that could ever tell;<br /> + And if ’twas born alive or dead,<br /> + There’s no one knows, as I have said,<br /> + But some remember well,<br /> + That Martha Ray about this time<br /> + Would up the mountain often climb.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XVI.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + And all that winter, when at night<br /> + The wind blew from the mountain-peak,<br /> + ’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,<br /> + The church-yard path to seek:<br /> + For many a time and oft were heard<br /> + Cries coming from the mountain-head,<br /> + Some plainly living voices were,<br /> + And others, I’ve heard many swear,<br /> + Were voices of the dead:<br /> + I cannot think, whate’er they say,<br /> + They had to do with Martha Ray.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XVII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + But that she goes to this old thorn,<br /> + The thorn which I’ve described to you,<br /> + And there sits in a scarlet cloak,<br /> + I will be sworn is true.<br /> + For one day with my telescope,<br /> + To view the ocean wide and bright,<br /> + When to this country first I came,<br /> + Ere I had heard of Martha’s name,<br /> + I climbed the mountain’s height:<br /> + A storm came on, and I could see<br /> + No object higher than my knee.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XVIII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + ’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,<br /> + No screen, no fence could I discover,<br /> + And then the wind! in faith, it was<br /> + A wind full ten times over.<br /> + I looked around, I thought I saw<br /> + A jutting crag, and oft’ I ran,<br /> + Head-foremost, through the driving rain,<br /> + The shelter of the crag to gain,<br /> + And, as I am a man,<br /> + Instead of jutting crag, I found<br /> + A woman seated on the ground.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XIX.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I did not speak—I saw her face,<br /> + Her face it was enough for me;<br /> + I turned about and heard her cry,<br /> + “O misery! O misery!”<br /> + And there she sits, until the moon<br /> + Through half the clear blue sky will go,<br /> + And when the little breezes make<br /> + The waters of the pond to shake,<br /> + As all the country know,<br /> + She shudders and you hear her cry,<br /> + “Oh misery! oh misery!<br /> + </p> + <h3>XX.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + “But what’s the thorn? and what’s the pond?<br /> + “And what’s the hill of moss to her?<br /> + “And what’s the creeping breeze that comes<br /> + “The little pond to stir?”<br /> + I cannot tell; but some will say<br /> + She hanged her baby on the tree,<br /> + Some say she drowned it in the pond,<br /> + Which is a little step beyond,<br /> + But all and each agree,<br /> + The little babe was buried there,<br /> + Beneath that hill of moss so fair.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XXI.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I’ve heard the scarlet moss is red<br /> + With drops of that poor infant’s blood;<br /> + But kill a new-born infant thus!<br /> + I do not think she could.<br /> + Some say, if to the pond you go,<br /> + And fix on it a steady view,<br /> + The shadow of a babe you trace,<br /> + A baby and a baby’s face,<br /> + And that it looks at you;<br /> + Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain<br /> + The baby looks at you again.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XXII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + And some had sworn an oath that she<br /> + Should be to public justice brought;<br /> + And for the little infant’s bones<br /> + With spades they would have sought.<br /> + But then the beauteous hill of moss<br /> + Before their eyes began to stir;<br /> + And for full fifty yards around,<br /> + The grass it shook upon the ground;<br /> + But all do still aver<br /> + The little babe is buried there,<br /> + Beneath that hill of moss so fair.<br /> + </p> + <h3>XXIII.</h3> + <p class="noindent"> + I cannot tell how this may be,<br /> + But plain it is, the thorn is bound<br /> + With heavy tufts of moss, that strive<br /> + To drag it to the ground.<br /> + And this I know, full many a time,<br /> + When she was on the mountain high,<br /> + By day, and in the silent night,<br /> + When all the stars shone clear and bright,<br /> + That I have heard her cry,<br /> + “Oh misery! oh misery!<br /> + “O woe is me! oh misery!”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem13" name="poem13"></a>THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + In distant countries I have been,<br /> + And yet I have not often seen<br /> + A healthy man, a man full grown<br /> + Weep in the public roads alone.<br /> + But such a one, on English ground,<br /> + And in the broad high-way, I met;<br /> + Along the broad high-way he came,<br /> + His cheeks with tears were wet.<br /> + Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;<br /> + And in his arms a lamb he had.<br /> + <br /> + He saw me, and he turned aside,<br /> + As if he wished himself to hide:<br /> + Then with his coat he made essay<br /> + To wipe those briny tears away.<br /> + I follow’d him, and said, “My friend<br /> + “What ails you? wherefore weep you so?”<br /> + —“Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,<br /> + He makes my tears to flow.<br /> + To-day I fetched him from the rock;<br /> + He is the last of all my flock.<br /> + <br /> + When I was young, a single man,<br /> + And after youthful follies ran,<br /> + Though little given to care and thought,<br /> + Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;<br /> + And other sheep from her I raised,<br /> + As healthy sheep as you might see,<br /> + And then I married, and was rich<br /> + As I could wish to be;<br /> + Of sheep I number’d a full score,<br /> + And every year encreas’d my store.<br /> + <br /> + Year after year my stock it grew,<br /> + And from this one, this single ewe,<br /> + Full fifty comely sheep I raised,<br /> + As sweet a flock as ever grazed!<br /> + Upon the mountain did they feed;<br /> + They throve, and we at home did thrive.<br /> + —This lusty lamb of all my store<br /> + Is all that is alive:<br /> + And now I care not if we die,<br /> + And perish all of poverty.<br /> + <br /> + Ten children, Sir! had I to feed,<br /> + Hard labour in a time of need!<br /> + My pride was tamed, and in our grief,<br /> + I of the parish ask’d relief.<br /> + They said I was a wealthy man;<br /> + My sheep upon the mountain fed,<br /> + And it was fit that thence I took<br /> + Whereof to buy us bread:”<br /> + “Do this; how can we give to you,”<br /> + They cried, “what to the poor is due?”<br /> + <br /> + I sold a sheep as they had said,<br /> + And bought my little children bread,<br /> + And they were healthy with their food;<br /> + For me it never did me good.<br /> + A woeful time it was for me,<br /> + To see the end of all my gains,<br /> + The pretty flock which I had reared<br /> + With all my care and pains,<br /> + To see it melt like snow away!<br /> + For me it was a woeful day.<br /> + <br /> + Another still! and still another!<br /> + A little lamb, and then its mother!<br /> + It was a vein that never stopp’d,<br /> + Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d.<br /> + Till thirty were not left alive<br /> + They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,<br /> + And I may say that many a time<br /> + I wished they all were gone:<br /> + They dwindled one by one away;<br /> + For me it was a woeful day.<br /> + <br /> + To wicked deeds I was inclined,<br /> + And wicked fancies cross’d my mind,<br /> + And every man I chanc’d to see,<br /> + I thought he knew some ill of me<br /> + No peace, no comfort could I find,<br /> + No ease, within doors or without,<br /> + And crazily, and wearily,<br /> + I went my work about.<br /> + Oft-times I thought to run away;<br /> + For me it was a woeful day.<br /> + <br /> + Sir! ’twas a precious flock to me,<br /> + As dear as my own children be;<br /> + For daily with my growing store<br /> + I loved my children more and more.<br /> + Alas! it was an evil time;<br /> + God cursed me in my sore distress,<br /> + I prayed, yet every day I thought<br /> + I loved my children less;<br /> + And every week, and every day,<br /> + My flock, it seemed to melt away.<br /> + <br /> + They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!<br /> + From ten to five, from five to three,<br /> + A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;<br /> + And then at last, from three to two;<br /> + And of my fifty, yesterday<br /> + I had but only one,<br /> + And here it lies upon my arm,<br /> + Alas! and I have none;<br /> + To-day I fetched it from the rock;<br /> + It is the last of all my flock.”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem14" name="poem14"></a>THE DUNGEON.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + And this place our forefathers made for man!<br /> + This is the process of our love and wisdom,<br /> + To each poor brother who offends against us—<br /> + Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?<br /> + Is this the only cure? Merciful God?<br /> + Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up<br /> + By ignorance and parching poverty,<br /> + His energies roll back upon his heart,<br /> + And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,<br /> + They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;<br /> + Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks—<br /> + And this is their best cure! uncomforted<br /> + And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,<br /> + And savage faces, at the clanking hour,<br /> + Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,<br /> + By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies<br /> + Circled with evil, till his very soul<br /> + Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed<br /> + By sights of ever more deformity!<br /> + <br /> + With other ministrations thou, O nature!<br /> + Healest thy wandering and distempered child:<br /> + Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,<br /> + Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,<br /> + Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,<br /> + Till he relent, and can no more endure<br /> + To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,<br /> + Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;<br /> + But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,<br /> + His angry spirit healed and harmonized<br /> + By the benignant touch of love and beauty.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem15" name="poem15"></a>THE MAD MOTHER.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,<br /> + The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,<br /> + Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,<br /> + And she came far from over the main.<br /> + She has a baby on her arm,<br /> + Or else she were alone;<br /> + And underneath the hay-stack warm,<br /> + And on the green-wood stone,<br /> + She talked and sung the woods among;<br /> + And it was in the English tongue.<br /> + <br /> + “Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,<br /> + But nay, my heart is far too glad;<br /> + And I am happy when I sing<br /> + Full many a sad and doleful thing:<br /> + Then, lovely baby, do not fear!<br /> + I pray thee have no fear of me,<br /> + But, safe as in a cradle, here<br /> + My lovely baby! thou shalt be,<br /> + To thee I know too much I owe;<br /> + I cannot work thee any woe.<br /> + <br /> + A fire was once within my brain;<br /> + And in my head a dull, dull pain;<br /> + And fiendish faces one, two, three,<br /> + Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.<br /> + But then there came a sight of joy;<br /> + It came at once to do me good;<br /> + I waked, and saw my little boy,<br /> + My little boy of flesh and blood;<br /> + Oh joy for me that sight to see!<br /> + For he was here, and only he.<br /> + <br /> + Suck, little babe, oh suck again!<br /> + It cools my blood; it cools my brain;<br /> + Thy lips I feel them, baby! they<br /> + Draw from my heart the pain away.<br /> + Oh! press me with thy little hand;<br /> + It loosens something at my chest;<br /> + About that tight and deadly band<br /> + I feel thy little fingers press’d.<br /> + The breeze I see is in the tree;<br /> + It comes to cool my babe and me.<br /> + <br /> + Oh! love me, love me, little boy!<br /> + Thou art thy mother’s only joy;<br /> + And do not dread the waves below,<br /> + When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;<br /> + The high crag cannot work me harm,<br /> + Nor leaping torrents when they howl;<br /> + The babe I carry on my arm,<br /> + He saves for me my precious soul;<br /> + Then happy lie, for blest am I;<br /> + Without me my sweet babe would die.<br /> + <br /> + Then do not fear, my boy! for thee<br /> + Bold as a lion I will be;<br /> + And I will always be thy guide,<br /> + Through hollow snows and rivers wide.<br /> + I’ll build an Indian bower; I know<br /> + The leaves that make the softest bed:<br /> + And if from me thou wilt not go,<br /> + But still be true ’till I am dead,<br /> + My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,<br /> + As merry as the birds in spring.<br /> + <br /> + Thy father cares not for my breast,<br /> + ’Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:<br /> + ’Tis all thine own! and if its hue<br /> + Be changed, that was so fair to view,<br /> + ’Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!<br /> + My beauty, little child, is flown;<br /> + But thou wilt live with me in love,<br /> + And what if my poor cheek be brown?<br /> + ’Tis well for me; thou canst not see<br /> + How pale and wan it else would be.<br /> + <br /> + Dread not their taunts, my little life!<br /> + I am thy father’s wedded wife;<br /> + And underneath the spreading tree<br /> + We two will live in honesty.<br /> + If his sweet boy he could forsake,<br /> + With me he never would have stay’d:<br /> + From him no harm my babe can take,<br /> + But he, poor man! is wretched made,<br /> + And every day we two will pray<br /> + For him that’s gone and far away.<br /> + <br /> + I’ll teach my boy the sweetest things;<br /> + I’ll teach him how the owlet sings.<br /> + My little babe! thy lips are still,<br /> + And thou hast almost suck’d thy fill.<br /> + —Where art thou gone my own dear child?<br /> + What wicked looks are those I see?<br /> + Alas! alas! that look so wild,<br /> + It never, never came from me:<br /> + If thou art mad, my pretty lad,<br /> + Then I must be for ever sad.<br /> + <br /> + Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!<br /> + For I thy own dear mother am.<br /> + My love for thee has well been tried:<br /> + I’ve sought thy father far and wide.<br /> + I know the poisons of the shade,<br /> + I know the earth-nuts fit for food;<br /> + Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;<br /> + We’ll find thy father in the wood.<br /> + Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!<br /> + And there, my babe; we’ll live for aye.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem16" name="poem16"></a>THE IDIOT BOY.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night,<br /> + The moon is up—the sky is blue,<br /> + The owlet in the moonlight air,<br /> + He shouts from nobody knows where;<br /> + He lengthens out his lonely shout,<br /> + Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!<br /> + <br /> + —Why bustle thus about your door,<br /> + What means this bustle, Betty Foy?<br /> + Why are you in this mighty fret?<br /> + And why on horseback have you set<br /> + Him whom you love, your idiot boy?<br /> + <br /> + Beneath the moon that shines so bright,<br /> + Till she is tired, let Betty Foy<br /> + With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;<br /> + But wherefore set upon a saddle<br /> + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?<br /> + <br /> + There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed;<br /> + Good Betty! put him down again;<br /> + His lips with joy they burr at you,<br /> + But, Betty! what has he to do<br /> + With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?<br /> + <br /> + The world will say ’tis very idle,<br /> + Bethink you of the time of night;<br /> + There’s not a mother, no not one,<br /> + But when she hears what you have done,<br /> + Oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright.<br /> + <br /> + But Betty’s bent on her intent,<br /> + For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,<br /> + Old Susan, she who dwells alone,<br /> + Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,<br /> + As if her very life would fail.<br /> + <br /> + There’s not a house within a mile.<br /> + No hand to help them in distress:<br /> + Old Susan lies a bed in pain,<br /> + And sorely puzzled are the twain,<br /> + For what she ails they cannot guess.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty’s husband’s at the wood,<br /> + Where by the week he doth abide,<br /> + A woodman in the distant vale;<br /> + There’s none to help poor Susan Gale,<br /> + What must be done? what will betide?<br /> + <br /> + And Betty from the lane has fetched<br /> + Her pony, that is mild and good,<br /> + Whether he be in joy or pain,<br /> + Feeding at will along the lane,<br /> + Or bringing faggots from the wood.<br /> + <br /> + And he is all in travelling trim,<br /> + And by the moonlight, Betty Foy<br /> + Has up upon the saddle set,<br /> + The like was never heard of yet,<br /> + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + And he must post without delay<br /> + Across the bridge that’s in the dale,<br /> + And by the church, and o’er the down,<br /> + To bring a doctor from the town,<br /> + Or she will die, old Susan Gale.<br /> + <br /> + There is no need of boot or spur,<br /> + There is no need of whip or wand,<br /> + For Johnny has his holly-bough,<br /> + And with a hurly-burly now<br /> + He shakes the green bough in his hand.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty o’er and o’er has told<br /> + The boy who is her best delight,<br /> + Both what to follow, what to shun,<br /> + What do, and what to leave undone,<br /> + How turn to left, and how to right.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty’s most especial charge,<br /> + Was, “Johnny! Johnny! mind that you<br /> + “Come home again, nor stop at all,<br /> + “Come home again, whate’er befal,<br /> + “My Johnny do, I pray you do.”<br /> + <br /> + To this did Johnny answer make,<br /> + Both with his head, and with his hand,<br /> + And proudly shook the bridle too,<br /> + And then! his words were not a few,<br /> + Which Betty well could understand.<br /> + <br /> + And now that Johnny is just going,<br /> + Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry,<br /> + She gently pats the pony’s side,<br /> + On which her idiot boy must ride,<br /> + And seems no longer in a hurry.<br /> + <br /> + But when the pony moved his legs,<br /> + Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!<br /> + For joy he cannot hold the bridle,<br /> + For joy his head and heels are idle,<br /> + He’s idle all for very joy.<br /> + <br /> + And while the pony moves his legs,<br /> + In Johnny’s left-hand you may see,<br /> + The green bough’s motionless and dead;<br /> + The moon that shines above his head<br /> + Is not more still and mute than he.<br /> + <br /> + His heart it was so full of glee,<br /> + That till full fifty yards were gone,<br /> + He quite forgot his holly whip,<br /> + And all his skill in horsemanship,<br /> + Oh! happy, happy, happy John.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty’s standing at the door,<br /> + And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows,<br /> + Proud of herself, and proud of him,<br /> + She sees him in his travelling trim;<br /> + How quietly her Johnny goes.<br /> + <br /> + The silence of her idiot boy,<br /> + What hopes it sends to Betty’s heart!<br /> + He’s at the guide-post—he turns right,<br /> + She watches till he’s out of sight,<br /> + And Betty will not then depart.<br /> + <br /> + Burr, burr—now Johnny’s lips they burr,<br /> + As loud as any mill, or near it,<br /> + Meek as a lamb the pony moves,<br /> + And Johnny makes the noise he loves,<br /> + And Betty listens, glad to hear it.<br /> + <br /> + Away she hies to Susan Gale:<br /> + And Johnny’s in a merry tune,<br /> + The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,<br /> + And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr,<br /> + And on he goes beneath the moon.<br /> + <br /> + His steed and he right well agree,<br /> + For of this pony there’s a rumour,<br /> + That should he lose his eyes and ears,<br /> + And should he live a thousand years,<br /> + He never will be out of humour.<br /> + <br /> + But then he is a horse that thinks!<br /> + And when he thinks his pace is slack;<br /> + Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,<br /> + Yet for his life he cannot tell<br /> + What he has got upon his back.<br /> + <br /> + So through the moonlight lanes they go,<br /> + And far into the moonlight dale,<br /> + And by the church, and o’er the down,<br /> + To bring a doctor from the town,<br /> + To comfort poor old Susan Gale.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty, now at Susan’s side,<br /> + Is in the middle of her story,<br /> + What comfort Johnny soon will bring,<br /> + With many a most diverting thing,<br /> + Of Johnny’s wit and Johnny’s glory.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty’s still at Susan’s side:<br /> + By this time she’s not quite so flurried;<br /> + Demure with porringer and plate<br /> + She sits, as if in Susan’s fate<br /> + Her life and soul were buried.<br /> + <br /> + But Betty, poor good woman! she,<br /> + You plainly in her face may read it,<br /> + Could lend out of that moment’s store<br /> + Five years of happiness or more,<br /> + To any that might need it.<br /> + <br /> + But yet I guess that now and then<br /> + With Betty all was not so well,<br /> + And to the road she turns her ears,<br /> + And thence full many a sound she hears,<br /> + Which she to Susan will not tell.<br /> + <br /> + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,<br /> + “As sure as there’s a moon in heaven,”<br /> + Cries Betty, “he’ll be back again;<br /> + “They’ll both be here, ’tis almost ten,<br /> + “They’ll both be here before eleven.”<br /> + <br /> + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,<br /> + The clock gives warning for eleven;<br /> + ’Tis on the stroke—“If Johnny’s near,”<br /> + Quoth Betty “he will soon be here,<br /> + “As sure as there’s a moon in heaven.”<br /> + <br /> + The clock is on the stroke of twelve,<br /> + And Johnny is not yet in sight,<br /> + The moon’s in heaven, as Betty sees,<br /> + But Betty is not quite at ease;<br /> + And Susan has a dreadful night.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty, half an hour ago,<br /> + On Johnny vile reflections cast;<br /> + “A little idle sauntering thing!”<br /> + With other names, an endless string,<br /> + But now that time is gone and past.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty’s drooping at the heart,<br /> + That happy time all past and gone,<br /> + “How can it be he is so late?<br /> + “The doctor he has made him wait,<br /> + “Susan! they’ll both be here anon.”<br /> + <br /> + And Susan’s growing worse and worse,<br /> + And Betty’s in a sad quandary;<br /> + And then there’s nobody to say<br /> + If she must go or she must stay:<br /> + —She’s in a sad quandary.<br /> + <br /> + The clock is on the stroke of one;<br /> + But neither Doctor nor his guide<br /> + Appear along the moonlight road,<br /> + There’s neither horse nor man abroad,<br /> + And Betty’s still at Susan’s side.<br /> + <br /> + And Susan she begins to fear<br /> + Of sad mischances not a few,<br /> + That Johnny may perhaps be drown’d,<br /> + Or lost perhaps, and never found;<br /> + Which they must both for ever rue.<br /> + <br /> + She prefaced half a hint of this<br /> + With, “God forbid it should be true!”<br /> + At the first word that Susan said<br /> + Cried Betty, rising from the bed,<br /> + “Susan, I’d gladly stay with you.<br /> + <br /> + “I must be gone, I must away,<br /> + “Consider, Johnny’s but half-wise;<br /> + “Susan, we must take care of him,<br /> + “If he is hurt in life or limb”—<br /> + “Oh God forbid!” poor Susan cries.<br /> + <br /> + “What can I do?” says Betty, going,<br /> + “What can I do to ease your pain?<br /> + “Good Susan tell me, and I’ll stay;<br /> + “I fear you’re in a dreadful way,<br /> + “But I shall soon be back again.”<br /> + <br /> + “Good Betty go, good Betty go,<br /> + “There’s nothing that can ease my pain.”<br /> + Then off she hies, but with a prayer<br /> + That God poor Susan’s life would spare,<br /> + Till she comes back again.<br /> + <br /> + So, through the moonlight lane she goes,<br /> + And far into the moonlight dale;<br /> + And how she ran, and how she walked,<br /> + And all that to herself she talked,<br /> + Would surely be a tedious tale.<br /> + <br /> + In high and low, above, below,<br /> + In great and small, in round and square,<br /> + In tree and tower was Johnny seen,<br /> + In bush and brake, in black and green,<br /> + ’Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.<br /> + <br /> + She’s past the bridge that’s in the dale,<br /> + And now the thought torments her sore,<br /> + Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,<br /> + To hunt the moon that’s in the brook,<br /> + And never will be heard of more.<br /> + <br /> + And now she’s high upon the down,<br /> + Alone amid a prospect wide;<br /> + There’s neither Johnny nor his horse,<br /> + Among the fern or in the gorse;<br /> + There’s neither doctor nor his guide.<br /> + <br /> + “Oh saints! what is become of him?<br /> + “Perhaps he’s climbed into an oak,<br /> + “Where he will stay till he is dead;<br /> + “Or sadly he has been misled,<br /> + “And joined the wandering gypsey-folk.<br /> + <br /> + “Or him that wicked pony’s carried<br /> + “To the dark cave, the goblins’ hall,<br /> + “Or in the castle he’s pursuing,<br /> + “Among the ghosts, his own undoing;<br /> + “Or playing with the waterfall.”<br /> + <br /> + At poor old Susan then she railed,<br /> + While to the town she posts away;<br /> + “If Susan had not been so ill,<br /> + “Alas! I should have had him still,<br /> + “My Johnny, till my dying day.”<br /> + <br /> + Poor Betty! in this sad distemper,<br /> + The doctor’s self would hardly spare,<br /> + Unworthy things she talked and wild,<br /> + Even he, of cattle the most mild,<br /> + The pony had his share.<br /> + <br /> + And now she’s got into the town,<br /> + And to the doctor’s door she hies;<br /> + Tis silence all on every side;<br /> + The town so long, the town so wide,<br /> + Is silent as the skies.<br /> + <br /> + And now she’s at the doctor’s door,<br /> + She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap,<br /> + The doctor at the casement shews,<br /> + His glimmering eyes that peep and doze;<br /> + And one hand rubs his old night-cap.<br /> + <br /> + “Oh Doctor! Doctor! where’s my Johnny?”<br /> + “I’m here, what is’t you want with me?”<br /> + “Oh Sir! you know I’m Betty Foy,<br /> + “And I have lost my poor dear boy,<br /> + “You know him—him you often see;<br /> + <br /> + “He’s not so wise as some folks be,”<br /> + “The devil take his wisdom!” said<br /> + The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,<br /> + “What, woman! should I know of him?”<br /> + And, grumbling, he went back to bed.<br /> + <br /> + “O woe is me! O woe is me!<br /> + “Here will I die; here will I die;<br /> + “I thought to find my Johnny here,<br /> + “But he is neither far nor near,<br /> + “Oh! what a wretched mother I!”<br /> + <br /> + She stops, she stands, she looks about,<br /> + Which way to turn she cannot tell.<br /> + Poor Betty! it would ease her pain<br /> + If she had heart to knock again;<br /> + —The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!<br /> + <br /> + Then up along the town she hies,<br /> + No wonder if her senses fail,<br /> + This piteous news so much it shock’d her,<br /> + She quite forgot to send the Doctor,<br /> + To comfort poor old Susan Gale.<br /> + <br /> + And now she’s high upon the down,<br /> + And she can see a mile of road,<br /> + “Oh cruel! I’m almost three-score;<br /> + “Such night as this was ne’er before,<br /> + “There’s not a single soul abroad.”<br /> + <br /> + She listens, but she cannot hear<br /> + The foot of horse, the voice of man;<br /> + The streams with softest sound are flowing,<br /> + The grass you almost hear it growing,<br /> + You hear it now if e’er you can.<br /> + <br /> + The owlets through the long blue night<br /> + Are shouting to each other still:<br /> + Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob,<br /> + They lengthen out the tremulous sob,<br /> + That echoes far from hill to hill.<br /> + <br /> + Poor Betty now has lost all hope,<br /> + Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin;<br /> + A green-grown pond she just has pass’d,<br /> + And from the brink she hurries fast,<br /> + Lest she should drown herself therein.<br /> + <br /> + And now she sits her down and weeps;<br /> + Such tears she never shed before;<br /> + “Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy!<br /> + “Oh carry back my idiot boy!<br /> + “And we will ne’er o’erload thee more.”<br /> + <br /> + A thought is come into her head;<br /> + “The pony he is mild and good,<br /> + “And we have always used him well;<br /> + “Perhaps he’s gone along the dell,<br /> + “And carried Johnny to the wood.”<br /> + <br /> + Then up she springs as if on wings;<br /> + She thinks no more of deadly sin;<br /> + If Betty fifty ponds should see,<br /> + The last of all her thoughts would be,<br /> + To drown herself therein.<br /> + <br /> + Oh reader! now that I might tell<br /> + What Johnny and his horse are doing!<br /> + What they’ve been doing all this time,<br /> + Oh could I put it into rhyme,<br /> + A most delightful tale pursuing!<br /> + <br /> + Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!<br /> + He with his pony now doth roam<br /> + The cliffs and peaks so high that are,<br /> + To lay his hands upon a star,<br /> + And in his pocket bring it home.<br /> + <br /> + Perhaps he’s turned himself about,<br /> + His face unto his horse’s tail,<br /> + And still and mute, in wonder lost,<br /> + All like a silent horseman-ghost,<br /> + He travels on along the vale.<br /> + <br /> + And now, perhaps, he’s hunting sheep,<br /> + A fierce and dreadful hunter he!<br /> + Yon valley, that’s so trim and green,<br /> + In five months’ time, should he be seen,<br /> + A desart wilderness will be.<br /> + <br /> + Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,<br /> + And like the very soul of evil,<br /> + He’s galloping away, away,<br /> + And so he’ll gallop on for aye,<br /> + The bane of all that dread the devil.<br /> + <br /> + I to the muses have been bound,<br /> + These fourteen years, by strong indentures;<br /> + Oh gentle muses! let me tell<br /> + But half of what to him befel,<br /> + For sure he met with strange adventures.<br /> + <br /> + Oh gentle muses! is this kind?<br /> + Why will ye thus my suit repel?<br /> + Why of your further aid bereave me?<br /> + And can ye thus unfriended leave me?<br /> + Ye muses! whom I love so well.<br /> + <br /> + Who’s yon, that, near the waterfall,<br /> + Which thunders down with headlong force,<br /> + Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,<br /> + As careless as if nothing were,<br /> + Sits upright on a feeding horse?<br /> + <br /> + Unto his horse, that’s feeding free,<br /> + He seems, I think, the rein to give;<br /> + Of moon or stars he takes no heed;<br /> + Of such we in romances read,<br /> + —’Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.<br /> + <br /> + And that’s the very pony too.<br /> + Where is she, where is Betty Foy?<br /> + She hardly can sustain her fears;<br /> + The roaring water-fall she hears,<br /> + And cannot find her idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + Your pony’s worth his weight in gold,<br /> + Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!<br /> + She’s coming from among the trees,<br /> + And now, all full in view, she sees<br /> + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + And Betty sees the pony too:<br /> + Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?<br /> + It is no goblin, ’tis no ghost,<br /> + ’Tis he whom you so long have lost,<br /> + He whom you love, your idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + She looks again—her arms are up—<br /> + She screams—she cannot move for joy;<br /> + She darts as with a torrent’s force,<br /> + She almost has o’erturned the horse,<br /> + And fast she holds her idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud,<br /> + Whether in cunning or in joy,<br /> + I cannot tell; but while he laughs,<br /> + Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,<br /> + To hear again her idiot boy.<br /> + <br /> + And now she’s at the pony’s tail,<br /> + And now she’s at the pony’s head,<br /> + On that side now, and now on this,<br /> + And almost stifled with her bliss,<br /> + A few sad tears does Betty shed.<br /> + <br /> + She kisses o’er and o’er again,<br /> + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,<br /> + She’s happy here, she’s happy there,<br /> + She is uneasy every where;<br /> + Her limbs are all alive with joy.<br /> + <br /> + She pats the pony, where or when<br /> + She knows not, happy Betty Foy!<br /> + The little pony glad may be,<br /> + But he is milder far than she,<br /> + You hardly can perceive his joy.<br /> + <br /> + “Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;<br /> + “You’ve done your best, and that is all.”<br /> + She took the reins, when this was said,<br /> + And gently turned the pony’s head<br /> + From the loud water-fall.<br /> + <br /> + By this the stars were almost gone,<br /> + The moon was setting on the hill,<br /> + So pale you scarcely looked at her:<br /> + The little birds began to stir,<br /> + Though yet their tongues were still.<br /> + <br /> + The pony, Betty, and her boy,<br /> + Wind slowly through the woody dale:<br /> + And who is she, be-times abroad,<br /> + That hobbles up the steep rough road?<br /> + Who is it, but old Susan Gale?<br /> + <br /> + Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,<br /> + And many dreadful fears beset her,<br /> + Both for her messenger and nurse;<br /> + And as her mind grew worse and worse,<br /> + Her body it grew better.<br /> + <br /> + She turned, she toss’d herself in bed,<br /> + On all sides doubts and terrors met her;<br /> + Point after point did she discuss;<br /> + And while her mind was fighting thus,<br /> + Her body still grew better.<br /> + <br /> + “Alas! what is become of them?<br /> + “These fears can never be endured,<br /> + “I’ll to the wood.”—The word scarce said,<br /> + Did Susan rise up from her bed,<br /> + As if by magic cured.<br /> + <br /> + Away she posts up hill and down,<br /> + And to the wood at length is come,<br /> + She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;<br /> + Oh me! it is a merry meeting,<br /> + As ever was in Christendom.<br /> + <br /> + The owls have hardly sung their last,<br /> + While our four travellers homeward wend;<br /> + The owls have hooted all night long,<br /> + And with the owls began my song,<br /> + And with the owls must end.<br /> + <br /> + For while they all were travelling home,<br /> + Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do,<br /> + “Where all this long night you have been,<br /> + “What you have heard, what you have seen,<br /> + “And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”<br /> + <br /> + Now Johnny all night long had heard<br /> + The owls in tuneful concert strive;<br /> + No doubt too he the moon had seen;<br /> + For in the moonlight he had been<br /> + From eight o’clock till five.<br /> + <br /> + And thus to Betty’s question, he<br /> + Made answer, like a traveller bold,<br /> + (His very words I give to you,)<br /> + “The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,<br /> + “And the sun did shine so cold.”<br /> + —Thus answered Johnny in his glory,<br /> + And that was all his travel’s story.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem17" name="poem17"></a>LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + How rich the wave, in front, imprest<br /> + With evening-twilight’s summer hues,<br /> + While, facing thus the crimson west,<br /> + The boat her silent path pursues!<br /> + And see how dark the backward stream!<br /> + A little moment past, so smiling!<br /> + And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,<br /> + Some other loiterer beguiling.<br /> + <br /> + Such views the youthful bard allure,<br /> + But, heedless of the following gloom,<br /> + He deems their colours shall endure<br /> + ’Till peace go with him to the tomb.<br /> + —And let him nurse his fond deceit,<br /> + And what if he must die in sorrow!<br /> + Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,<br /> + Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?<br /> + <br /> + Glide gently, thus for ever glide,<br /> + O Thames! that other bards may see,<br /> + As lovely visions by thy side<br /> + As now, fair river! come to me.<br /> + Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;<br /> + Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,<br /> + ’Till all our minds for ever flow,<br /> + As thy deep waters now are flowing.<br /> + <br /> + Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,<br /> + That in thy waters may be seen<br /> + The image of a poet’s heart,<br /> + How bright, how solemn, how serene!<br /> + Such heart did once the poet bless,<br /> + Who, pouring here a <a id="footnote3tag" name="footnote3tag"></a><a + href="#footnote3"><sup>3</sup></a> <i>later</i> ditty,<br /> + Could find no refuge from distress,<br /> + But in the milder grief of pity.<br /> + <br /> + Remembrance! as we glide along,<br /> + For him suspend the dashing oar,<br /> + And pray that never child of Song<br /> + May know his freezing sorrows more.<br /> + How calm! how still! the only sound,<br /> + The dripping of the oar suspended!<br /> + —The evening darkness gathers round<br /> + By virtue’s holiest powers attended.<br /> + </p> + <p class="footnote"><a id="footnote3" name="footnote3"></a><b>Footnote 3</b> <a + href="#footnote3tag">(return)</a>: Collins’s Ode on the death of Thomson, the last + written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode + is also alluded to in the next stanza.</p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem18" name="poem18"></a>EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + “Why William, on that old grey stone,<br /> + “Thus for the length of half a day,<br /> + “Why William, sit you thus alone,<br /> + “And dream your time away?<br /> + <br /> + “Where are your books? that light bequeath’d<br /> + “To beings else forlorn and blind!<br /> + “Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath’d<br /> + “From dead men to their kind.<br /> + <br /> + “You look round on your mother earth,<br /> + “As if she for no purpose bore you;<br /> + “As if you were her first-born birth,<br /> + “And none had lived before you!”<br /> + <br /> + One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,<br /> + When life was sweet I knew not why,<br /> + To me my good friend Matthew spake,<br /> + And thus I made reply.<br /> + <br /> + “The eye it cannot chuse but see,<br /> + “We cannot bid the ear be still;<br /> + “Our bodies feel, where’er they be,<br /> + “Against, or with our will.<br /> + <br /> + “Nor less I deem that there are powers,<br /> + “Which of themselves our minds impress,<br /> + “That we can feed this mind of ours,<br /> + “In a wise passiveness.<br /> + <br /> + “Think you, mid all this mighty sum<br /> + “Of things for ever speaking,<br /> + “That nothing of itself will come,<br /> + “But we must still be seeking?<br /> + <br /> + “—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,<br /> + “Conversing as I may,<br /> + “I sit upon this old grey stone,<br /> + “And dream my time away.”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem19" name="poem19"></a>THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,<br /> + Why all this toil and trouble?<br /> + Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,<br /> + Or surely you’ll grow double.<br /> + <br /> + The sun above the mountain’s head,<br /> + A freshening lustre mellow,<br /> + Through all the long green fields has spread,<br /> + His first sweet evening yellow.<br /> + <br /> + Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife,<br /> + Come, hear the woodland linnet,<br /> + How sweet his music; on my life<br /> + There’s more of wisdom in it.<br /> + <br /> + And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!<br /> + And he is no mean preacher;<br /> + Come forth into the light of things,<br /> + Let Nature be your teacher.<br /> + <br /> + She has a world of ready wealth,<br /> + Our minds and hearts to bless—<br /> + Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,<br /> + Truth breathed by chearfulness.<br /> + <br /> + One impulse from a vernal wood<br /> + May teach you more of man;<br /> + Of moral evil and of good,<br /> + Than all the sages can.<br /> + <br /> + Sweet is the lore which nature brings;<br /> + Our meddling intellect<br /> + Misshapes the beauteous forms of things;<br /> + —We murder to dissect.<br /> + <br /> + Enough of science and of art;<br /> + Close up these barren leaves;<br /> + Come forth, and bring with you a heart<br /> + That watches and receives.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem20" name="poem20"></a>OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + + The little hedge-row birds,<br /> + That peck along the road, regard him not.<br /> + He travels on, and in his face, his step,<br /> + His gait, is one expression; every limb,<br /> + His look and bending figure, all bespeak<br /> + A man who does not move with pain, but moves<br /> + With thought—He is insensibly subdued<br /> + To settled quiet: he is one by whom<br /> + All effort seems forgotten, one to whom<br /> + Long patience has such mild composure given,<br /> + That patience now doth seem a thing, of which<br /> + He hath no need. He is by nature led<br /> + To peace so perfect, that the young behold<br /> + With envy, what the old man hardly feels.<br /> + —I asked him whither he was bound, and what<br /> + The object of his journey; he replied<br /> + “Sir! I am going many miles to take<br /> + “A last leave of my son, a mariner,<br /> + “Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,<br /> + And there is dying in an hospital.”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem21" name="poem21"></a>THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + [<i>When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with + his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied + with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is + informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to + follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have + the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to + add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that + very interesting work,</i> Hearne’s Journey from Hudson’s Bay to the Northern + Ocean<i>. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs us, vary their + position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance + is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.</i>] + </p> + <p class="noindent"> + Before I see another day,<br /> + Oh let my body die away!<br /> + In sleep I heard the northern gleams;<br /> + The stars they were among my dreams;<br /> + In sleep did I behold the skies,<br /> + I saw the crackling flashes drive;<br /> + And yet they are upon my eyes,<br /> + And yet I am alive.<br /> + Before I see another day,<br /> + Oh let my body die away!<br /> + <br /> + My fire is dead: it knew no pain;<br /> + Yet is it dead, and I remain.<br /> + All stiff with ice the ashes lie;<br /> + And they are dead, and I will die.<br /> + When I was well, I wished to live,<br /> + For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire;<br /> + But they to me no joy can give,<br /> + No pleasure now, and no desire.<br /> + Then here contented will I lie;<br /> + Alone I cannot fear to die.<br /> + <br /> + Alas! you might have dragged me on<br /> + Another day, a single one!<br /> + Too soon despair o’er me prevailed;<br /> + Too soon my heartless spirit failed;<br /> + When you were gone my limbs were stronger,<br /> + And Oh how grievously I rue,<br /> + That, afterwards, a little longer,<br /> + My friends, I did not follow you!<br /> + For strong and without pain I lay,<br /> + My friends, when you were gone away.<br /> + <br /> + My child! they gave thee to another,<br /> + A woman who was not thy mother.<br /> + When from my arms my babe they took,<br /> + On me how strangely did he look!<br /> + Through his whole body something ran,<br /> + A most strange something did I see;<br /> + —As if he strove to be a man,<br /> + That he might pull the sledge for me.<br /> + And then he stretched his arms, how wild!<br /> + Oh mercy! like a little child.<br /> + <br /> + My little joy! my little pride!<br /> + In two days more I must have died.<br /> + Then do not weep and grieve for me;<br /> + I feel I must have died with thee.<br /> + Oh wind that o’er my head art flying,<br /> + The way my friends their course did bend,<br /> + I should not feel the pain of dying,<br /> + Could I with thee a message send.<br /> + Too soon, my friends, you went away;<br /> + For I had many things to say.<br /> + <br /> + I’ll follow you across the snow,<br /> + You travel heavily and slow:<br /> + In spite of all my weary pain,<br /> + I’ll look upon your tents again.<br /> + My fire is dead, and snowy white<br /> + The water which beside it stood;<br /> + The wolf has come to me to-night,<br /> + And he has stolen away my food.<br /> + For ever left alone am I,<br /> + Then wherefore should I fear to die?<br /> + <br /> + My journey will be shortly run,<br /> + I shall not see another sun,<br /> + I cannot lift my limbs to know<br /> + If they have any life or no.<br /> + My poor forsaken child! if I<br /> + For once could have thee close to me,<br /> + With happy heart I then would die,<br /> + And my last thoughts would happy be,<br /> + I feel my body die away,<br /> + I shall not see another day.<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem22" name="poem22"></a>THE CONVICT.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + The glory of evening was spread through the west;<br /> + —On the slope of a mountain I stood;<br /> + While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest<br /> + Rang loud through the meadow and wood.<br /> + <br /> + “And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?”<br /> + In the pain of my spirit I said,<br /> + And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair<br /> + To the cell where the convict is laid.<br /> + <br /> + The thick-ribbed walls that o’ershadow the gate<br /> + Resound; and the dungeons + unfold: <br /> + I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate,<br /> + That outcast of pity behold.<br /> + <br /> + His black matted head on his shoulder is bent,<br /> + And deep is the sigh of his breath,<br /> + And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent<br /> + On the fetters that link him to death.<br /> + <br /> + ’Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze.<br /> + That body dismiss’d from his care;<br /> + Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays<br /> + More terrible images there.<br /> + <br /> + His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried,<br /> + With wishes the past to undo;<br /> + And his crime, through the pains that o’erwhelm him, descried,<br /> + Still blackens and grows on his view.<br /> + <br /> + When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field,<br /> + To his chamber the monarch is led,<br /> + All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield,<br /> + And quietness pillow his head.<br /> + <br /> + But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze,<br /> + And conscience her tortures appease,<br /> + ’Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose;<br /> + In the comfortless vault of disease.<br /> + <br /> + When his fetters at night have so press’d on his limbs,<br /> + That the weight can no longer be borne,<br /> + If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims,<br /> + The wretch on his pallet should turn,<br /> + <br /> + While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain,<br /> + From the roots of his hair there shall start<br /> + A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain,<br /> + And terror shall leap at his heart.<br /> + <br /> + But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye,<br /> + And the motion unsettles a tear;<br /> + The silence of sorrow it seems to supply,<br /> + And asks of me why I am here.<br /> + <br /> + “Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood<br /> + “With o’erweening complacence our state to compare,<br /> + “But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good,<br /> + “Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share.<br /> + <br /> + “At thy name though compassion her nature resign,<br /> + “Though in virtue’s proud mouth thy report be a stain,<br /> + “My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine,<br /> + “Would plant thee where yet thou might’st blossom again.”<br /> + </p> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a id="poem23" name="poem23"></a>LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE + DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.</h2> + <p class="noindent"> + Five years have passed; five summers, with the length<br /> + Of five long winters! and again I hear<br /> + These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs<br /> + With a sweet inland murmur. <a id="footnote4tag" name="footnote4tag"></a><a + href="#footnote4"><sup>4</sup></a>—Once again<br /> + Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,<br /> + Which on a wild secluded scene impress<br /> + Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect<br /> + The landscape with the quiet of the sky.<br /> + The day is come when I again repose<br /> + Here, under this dark sycamore, and view<br /> + These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,<br /> + Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,<br /> + Among the woods and copses lose themselves,<br /> + Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb<br /> + The wild green landscape. Once again I see<br /> + These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines<br /> + Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms<br /> + Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke<br /> + Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,<br /> + With some uncertain notice, as might seem,<br /> + Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,<br /> + Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire<br /> + The hermit sits alone.<br /> + <br /> + Though + absent long,<br /> + These forms of beauty have not been to me,<br /> + As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:<br /> + But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din<br /> + Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,<br /> + In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,<br /> + Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,<br /> + And passing even into my purer mind<br /> + With tranquil restoration:—feelings too<br /> + Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,<br /> + As may have had no trivial influence<br /> + On that best portion of a good man’s life;<br /> + His little, nameless, unremembered acts<br /> + Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,<br /> + To them I may have owed another gift,<br /> + Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,<br /> + In which the burthen of the mystery,<br /> + In which the heavy and the weary weight<br /> + Of all this unintelligible world<br /> + Is lighten’d:—that serene and blessed mood,<br /> + In which the affections gently lead us on,<br /> + Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,<br /> + And even the motion of our human blood<br /> + Almost suspended, we are laid asleep<br /> + In body, and become a living soul:<br /> + While with an eye made quiet by the power<br /> + Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,<br /> + We see into the life of things.<br /> + <br /> + + If this<br /> + Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,<br /> + In darkness, and amid the many shapes<br /> + Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir<br /> + Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,<br /> + Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,<br /> + How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee<br /> + O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,<br /> + How often has my spirit turned to thee!<br /> + <br /> + And now, with gleams of half-extinguish’d thought,<br /> + With many recognitions dim and faint,<br /> + And somewhat of a sad perplexity,<br /> + The picture of the mind revives again:<br /> + While here I stand, not only with the sense<br /> + Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts<br /> + That in this moment there is life and food<br /> + For future years. And so I dare to hope<br /> + Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first<br /> + I came among these hills; when like a roe<br /> + I bounded o’er the mountains, by the sides<br /> + Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,<br /> + Wherever nature led; more like a man<br /> + Flying from something that he dreads, than one<br /> + Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then<br /> + (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,<br /> + And their glad animal movements all gone by,)<br /> + To me was all in all.—I cannot paint<br /> + What then I was. The sounding cataract<br /> + Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,<br /> + The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,<br /> + Their colours and their forms, were then to me<br /> + An appetite: a feeling and a love,<br /> + That had no need of a remoter charm,<br /> + By thought supplied, or any interest<br /> + Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,<br /> + And all its aching joys are now no more,<br /> + And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this<br /> + Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts<br /> + Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,<br /> + Abundant recompence. For I have learned<br /> + To look on nature, not as in the hour<br /> + Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes<br /> + The still, sad music of humanity,<br /> + Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power<br /> + To chasten and subdue. And I have felt<br /> + A presence that disturbs me with the joy<br /> + Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime<br /> + Of something far more deeply interfused,<br /> + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,<br /> + And the round ocean, and the living air,<br /> + And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,<br /> + A motion and a spirit, that impels<br /> + All thinking things, all objects of all thought,<br /> + And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still<br /> + A lover of the meadows and the woods,<br /> + And mountains; and of all that we behold<br /> + From this green earth; of all the mighty world<br /> + Of eye and ear, both what they half-create, <a id="footnote5tag" name="footnote5tag"></a><a href="#footnote5"><sup>5</sup></a><br /> + And what perceive; well pleased to recognize<br /> + In nature and the language of the sense,<br /> + The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,<br /> + The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul<br /> + Of all my moral being.<br /> + <br /> + Nor, + perchance,<br /> + If I were not thus taught, should I the more<br /> + Suffer my genial spirits to decay:<br /> + For thou art with me, here, upon the banks<br /> + Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,<br /> + My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch<br /> + The language of my former heart, and read<br /> + My former pleasures in the shooting lights<br /> + Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while<br /> + May I behold in thee what I was once,<br /> + My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,<br /> + Knowing that Nature never did betray<br /> + The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,<br /> + Through all the years of this our life, to lead<br /> + From joy to joy: for she can so inform<br /> + The mind that is within us, so impress<br /> + With quietness and beauty, and so feed<br /> + With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,<br /> + Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,<br /> + Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all<br /> + The dreary intercourse of daily life,<br /> + Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb<br /> + Our chearful faith that all which we behold<br /> + Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon<br /> + Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;<br /> + And let the misty mountain winds be free<br /> + To blow against thee: and in after years,<br /> + When these wild ecstasies shall be matured<br /> + Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind<br /> + Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,<br /> + Thy memory be as a dwelling-place<br /> + For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,<br /> + If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,<br /> + Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts<br /> + Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,<br /> + And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance,<br /> + If I should be, where I no more can hear<br /> + Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams<br /> + Of past existence, wilt thou then forget<br /> + That on the banks of this delightful stream<br /> + We stood together; and that I, so long<br /> + A worshipper of Nature, hither came,<br /> + Unwearied in that service: rather say<br /> + With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal<br /> + Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,<br /> + That after many wanderings, many years<br /> + Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,<br /> + And this green pastoral landscape, were to me<br /> + More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.<br /> + </p> + <p class="footnote"><a id="footnote4" name="footnote4"></a><b>Footnote 4</b> <a + href="#footnote4tag">(return)</a>: The river is not affected by the tides a few miles + above Tintern.</p> + <p class="footnote"><a id="footnote5" name="footnote5"></a><b>Footnote 5</b> <a + href="#footnote5tag">(return)</a>: This line has a close resemblance to an admirable + line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.</p> + <hr /> + + <h3>END.</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS 1798 ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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