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diff --git a/old/9622-8.txt b/old/9622-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..22e946f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/9622-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4234 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lyrical Ballads 1798, by +William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Lyrical Ballads 1798 + +Author: William Wordsworth + Samuel Taylor Coleridge + +Posting Date: November 25, 2011 [EBook #9622] +Release Date: January, 2006 +First Posted: October 10, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS 1798 *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + + + + + +LYRICAL BALLADS, +WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS. + + +LONDON + +PRINTED FOR J. & A. ARCH, GRACECHURCH-STREET. + +1798 + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _style_, 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. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere + + The Foster-Mother's Tale + + Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the Lake + of Esthwaite + + The Nightingale, a Conversational Poem + + The Female Vagrant + + Goody Blake and Harry Gill + + Lines written at a small distance from my House, and sent + by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed + + Simon Lee, the old Huntsman + + Anecdote for Fathers + + We are seven + + Lines written in early spring + + The Thorn + + The last of the Flock + + The Dungeon + + The Mad Mother + + The Idiot Boy + + Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening + + Expostulation and Reply + + The Tables turned; an Evening Scene, on the same subject + + Old Man travelling + + The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman + + The Convict + + Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey + + + + +THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE, +IN SEVEN PARTS. + + +ARGUMENT. + +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. + + +I. + + It is an ancyent Marinere, + And he stoppeth one of three: + "By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye + "Now wherefore stoppest me? + + "The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide + "And I am next of kin; + "The Guests are met, the Feast is set,-- + "May'st hear the merry din.-- + + But still he holds the wedding-guest-- + There was a Ship, quoth he-- + "Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, + "Marinere! come with me." + + He holds him with his skinny hand, + Quoth he, there was a Ship-- + "Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon! + "Or my Staff shall make thee skip." + + He holds him with his glittering eye-- + The wedding guest stood still + And listens like a three year's child; + The Marinere hath his will. + + The wedding-guest sate on a stone, + He cannot chuse but hear: + And thus spake on that ancyent man, + The bright-eyed Marinere. + + The Ship was cheer'd, the Harbour clear'd-- + Merrily did we drop + Below the Kirk, below the Hill, + Below the Light-house top. + + The Sun came up upon the left, + Out of the Sea came he: + And he shone bright, and on the right + Went down into the Sea. + + Higher and higher every day, + Till over the mast at noon-- + The wedding-guest here beat his breast, + For he heard the loud bassoon. + + The Bride hath pac'd into the Hall, + Red as a rose is she; + Nodding their heads before her goes + The merry Minstralsy. + + The wedding-guest he beat his breast, + Yet he cannot chuse but hear: + And thus spake on that ancyent Man, + The bright-eyed Marinere. + + Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind, + A Wind and Tempest strong! + For days and weeks it play'd us freaks-- + Like Chaff we drove along. + + Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow, + And it grew wond'rous cauld: + And Ice mast-high came floating by + As green as Emerauld. + + And thro' the drifts the snowy clifts + Did send a dismal sheen; + Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken-- + The Ice was all between. + + The Ice was here, the Ice was there, + The Ice was all around: + It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd-- + Like noises of a swound. + + At length did cross an Albatross, + Thorough the Fog it came; + And an it were a Christian Soul, + We hail'd it in God's name. + + The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms, + And round and round it flew: + The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit; + The Helmsman steer'd us thro'. + + And a good south wind sprung up behind, + The Albatross did follow; + And every day for food or play + Came to the Marinere's hollo! + + In mist or cloud on mast or shroud + It perch'd for vespers nine, + Whiles all the night thro' fog-smoke white + Glimmer'd the white moon-shine. + + "God save thee, ancyent Marinere! + "From the fiends that plague thee thus-- + "Why look'st thou so?"--with my cross bow + I shot the Albatross. + + +II. + + The Sun came up upon the right, + Out of the Sea came he; + And broad as a weft upon the left + Went down into the Sea. + + And the good south wind still blew behind, + But no sweet Bird did follow + Ne any day for food or play + Came to the Marinere's hollo! + + And I had done an hellish thing + And it would work 'em woe: + For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird + That made the Breeze to blow. + + Ne dim ne red, like God's own head, + The glorious Sun uprist: + Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird + That brought the fog and mist. + 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay + That bring the fog and mist. + + The breezes blew, the white foam flew, + The furrow follow'd free: + We were the first that ever burst + Into that silent Sea. + + Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down, + 'Twas sad as sad could be + And we did speak only to break + The silence of the Sea. + + All in a hot and copper sky + The bloody sun at noon, + Right up above the mast did stand, + No bigger than the moon. + + Day after day, day after day, + We stuck, ne breath ne motion, + As idle as a painted Ship + Upon a painted Ocean. + + Water, water, every where + And all the boards did shrink; + Water, water, every where, + Ne any drop to drink. + + The very deeps did rot: O Christ! + That ever this should be! + Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs + Upon the slimy Sea. + + About, about, in reel and rout + The Death-fires danc'd at night; + The water, like a witch's oils, + Burnt green and blue and white. + + And some in dreams assured were + Of the Spirit that plagued us so: + Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us + From the Land of Mist and Snow. + + And every tongue thro' utter drouth + Was wither'd at the root; + We could not speak no more than if + We had been choked with soot. + + Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks + Had I from old and young; + Instead of the Cross the Albatross + About my neck was hung. + + +III. + + I saw a something in the Sky + No bigger than my fist; + At first it seem'd a little speck + And then it seem'd a mist: + It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last + A certain shape, I wist. + + A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! + And still it ner'd and ner'd; + And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite, + It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd. + + With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd + Ne could we laugh, ne wail: + Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood + I bit my arm and suck'd the blood + And cry'd, A sail! a sail! + + With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd + Agape they hear'd me call: + Gramercy! they for joy did grin + And all at once their breath drew in + As they were drinking all. + + She doth not tack from side to side-- + Hither to work us weal + Withouten wind, withouten tide + She steddies with upright keel. + + The western wave was all a flame, + The day was well nigh done! + Almost upon the western wave + Rested the broad bright Sun; + When that strange shape drove suddenly + Betwixt us and the Sun. + + And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars + (Heaven's mother send us grace) + As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd + With broad and burning face. + + Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) + How fast she neres and neres! + Are those _her_ Sails that glance in the Sun + Like restless gossameres? + + Are these _her_ naked ribs, which fleck'd + The sun that did behind them peer? + And are these two all, all the crew, + That woman and her fleshless Pheere? + + _His_ bones were black with many a crack, + All black and bare, I ween; + Jet-black and bare, save where with rust + Of mouldy damps and charnel crust + They're patch'd with purple and green. + + _Her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free, + _Her_ locks are yellow as gold: + Her skin is as white as leprosy, + And she is far liker Death than he; + Her flesh makes the still air cold. + + The naked Hulk alongside came + And the Twain were playing dice; + "The Game is done! I've won, I've won!" + Quoth she, and whistled thrice. + + A gust of wind sterte up behind + And whistled thro' his bones; + Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth + Half-whistles and half-groans. + + With never a whisper in the Sea + Off darts the Spectre-ship; + While clombe above the Eastern bar + The horned Moon, with one bright Star + Almost atween the tips. + + One after one by the horned Moon + (Listen, O Stranger! to me) + Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang + And curs'd me with his ee. + + Four times fifty living men, + With never a sigh or groan, + With heavy thump, a lifeless lump + They dropp'd down one by one. + + Their souls did from their bodies fly,-- + They fled to bliss or woe; + And every soul it pass'd me by, + Like the whiz of my Cross-bow. + + +IV. + + "I fear thee, ancyent Marinere! + "I fear thy skinny hand; + "And thou art long and lank and brown + "As is the ribb'd Sea-sand. + + "I fear thee and thy glittering eye + "And thy skinny hand so brown"-- + Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest! + This body dropt not down. + + Alone, alone, all all alone + Alone on the wide wide Sea; + And Christ would take no pity on + My soul in agony. + + The many men so beautiful, + And they all dead did lie! + And a million million slimy things + Liv'd on--and so did I. + + I look'd upon the rotting Sea, + And drew my eyes away; + I look'd upon the eldritch deck, + And there the dead men lay. + + I look'd to Heaven, and try'd to pray; + But or ever a prayer had gusht, + A wicked whisper came and made + My heart as dry as dust. + + I clos'd my lids and kept them close, + Till the balls like pulses beat; + For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky + Lay like a load on my weary eye, + And the dead were at my feet. + + The cold sweat melted from their limbs, + Ne rot, ne reek did they; + The look with which they look'd on me, + Had never pass'd away. + + An orphan's curse would drag to Hell + A spirit from on high: + But O! more horrible than that + Is the curse in a dead man's eye! + Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse + And yet I could not die. + + The moving Moon went up the sky + And no where did abide: + Softly she was going up + And a star or two beside-- + + Her beams bemock'd the sultry main + Like morning frosts yspread; + But where the ship's huge shadow lay, + The charmed water burnt alway + A still and awful red. + + Beyond the shadow of the ship + I watch'd the water-snakes: + They mov'd in tracks of shining white; + And when they rear'd, the elfish light + Fell off in hoary flakes. + + Within the shadow of the ship + I watch'd their rich attire: + Blue, glossy green, and velvet black + They coil'd and swam; and every track + Was a flash of golden fire. + + O happy living things! no tongue + Their beauty might declare: + A spring of love gusht from my heart, + And I bless'd them unaware! + Sure my kind saint took pity on me, + And I bless'd them unaware. + + The self-same moment I could pray; + And from my neck so free + The Albatross fell off, and sank + Like lead into the sea. + + +V. + + O sleep, it is a gentle thing + Belov'd from pole to pole! + To Mary-queen the praise be yeven + She sent the gentle sleep from heaven + That slid into my soul. + + The silly buckets on the deck + That had so long remain'd, + I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew + And when I awoke it rain'd. + + My lips were wet, my throat was cold, + My garments all were dank; + Sure I had drunken in my dreams + And still my body drank. + + I mov'd and could not feel my limbs, + I was so light, almost + I thought that I had died in sleep, + And was a blessed Ghost. + + The roaring wind! it roar'd far off, + It did not come anear; + But with its sound it shook the sails + That were so thin and sere. + + The upper air bursts into life, + And a hundred fire-flags sheen + To and fro they are hurried about; + And to and fro, and in and out + The stars dance on between. + + The coming wind doth roar more loud; + The sails do sigh, like sedge: + The rain pours down from one black cloud + And the Moon is at its edge. + + Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft, + And the Moon is at its side: + Like waters shot from some high crag, + The lightning falls with never a jag + A river steep and wide. + + The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd + And dropp'd down, like a stone! + Beneath the lightning and the moon + The dead men gave a groan. + + They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, + Ne spake, ne mov'd their eyes: + It had been strange, even in a dream + To have seen those dead men rise. + + The helmsman steerd, the ship mov'd on; + Yet never a breeze up-blew; + The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes, + Where they were wont to do: + They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools-- + We were a ghastly crew. + + The body of my brother's son + Stood by me knee to knee: + The body and I pull'd at one rope, + But he said nought to me-- + And I quak'd to think of my own voice + How frightful it would be! + + The day-light dawn'd--they dropp'd their arms, + And cluster'd round the mast: + Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths + And from their bodies pass'd. + + Around, around, flew each sweet sound, + Then darted to the sun: + Slowly the sounds came back again + Now mix'd, now one by one. + + Sometimes a dropping from the sky + I heard the Lavrock sing; + Sometimes all little birds that are + How they seem'd to fill the sea and air + With their sweet jargoning, + + And now 'twas like all instruments, + Now like a lonely flute; + And now it is an angel's song + That makes the heavens be mute. + + It ceas'd: yet still the sails made on + A pleasant noise till noon, + A noise like of a hidden brook + In the leafy month of June, + That to the sleeping woods all night + Singeth a quiet tune. + + Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest! + "Marinere! thou hast thy will: + "For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make + "My body and soul to be still." + + Never sadder tale was told + To a man of woman born: + Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest! + Thou'lt rise to morrow morn. + + Never sadder tale was heard + By a man of woman born: + The Marineres all return'd to work + As silent as beforne. + + The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, + But look at me they n'old: + Thought I, I am as thin as air-- + They cannot me behold. + + Till noon we silently sail'd on + Yet never a breeze did breathe: + Slowly and smoothly went the ship + Mov'd onward from beneath. + + Under the keel nine fathom deep + From the land of mist and snow + The spirit slid: and it was He + That made the Ship to go. + The sails at noon left off their tune + And the Ship stood still also. + + The sun right up above the mast + Had fix'd her to the ocean: + But in a minute she 'gan stir + With a short uneasy motion-- + Backwards and forwards half her length + With a short uneasy motion. + + Then, like a pawing horse let go, + She made a sudden bound: + It flung the blood into my head, + And I fell into a swound. + + How long in that same fit I lay, + I have not to declare; + But ere my living life return'd, + I heard and in my soul discern'd + Two voices in the air, + + "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man? + "By him who died on cross, + "With his cruel bow he lay'd full low + "The harmless Albatross. + + "The spirit who 'bideth by himself + "In the land of mist and snow, + "He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man + "Who shot him with his bow." + + The other was a softer voice, + As soft as honey-dew: + Quoth he the man hath penance done, + And penance more will do. + + +VI. + + FIRST VOICE. + "But tell me, tell me! speak again, + "Thy soft response renewing-- + "What makes that ship drive on so fast? + "What is the Ocean doing?" + + SECOND VOICE. + "Still as a Slave before his Lord, + "The Ocean hath no blast: + "His great bright eye most silently + "Up to the moon is cast-- + + "If he may know which way to go, + "For she guides him smooth or grim. + "See, brother, see! how graciously + "She looketh down on him." + + FIRST VOICE. + "But why drives on that ship so fast + "Withouten wave or wind?" + SECOND VOICE. + "The air is cut away before, + "And closes from behind. + + "Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high, + "Or we shall be belated: + "For slow and slow that ship will go, + "When the Marinere's trance is abated." + + I woke, and we were sailing on + As in a gentle weather: + 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; + The dead men stood together. + + All stood together on the deck, + For a charnel-dungeon fitter: + All fix'd on me their stony eyes + That in the moon did glitter. + + The pang, the curse, with which they died, + Had never pass'd away: + I could not draw my een from theirs + Ne turn them up to pray. + + And in its time the spell was snapt, + And I could move my een: + I look'd far-forth, but little saw + Of what might else be seen. + + Like one, that on a lonely road + Doth walk in fear and dread, + And having once turn'd round, walks on + And turns no more his head: + Because he knows, a frightful fiend + Doth close behind him tread. + + But soon there breath'd a wind on me, + Ne sound ne motion made: + Its path was not upon the sea + In ripple or in shade. + + It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek, + Like a meadow-gale of spring-- + It mingled strangely with my fears, + Yet it felt like a welcoming. + + Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, + Yet she sail'd softly too: + Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze-- + On me alone it blew. + + O dream of joy! is this indeed + The light-house top I see? + Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk? + Is this mine own countrée? + + We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar, + And I with sobs did pray-- + "O let me be awake, my God! + "Or let me sleep alway!" + + The harbour-bay was clear as glass, + So smoothly it was strewn! + And on the bay the moon light lay, + And the shadow of the moon. + + The moonlight bay was white all o'er, + Till rising from the same, + Full many shapes, that shadows were, + Like as of torches came. + + A little distance from the prow + Those dark-red shadows were; + But soon I saw that my own flesh + Was red as in a glare. + + I turn'd my head in fear and dread, + And by the holy rood, + The bodies had advanc'd, and now + Before the mast they stood. + + They lifted up their stiff right arms, + They held them strait and tight; + And each right-arm burnt like a torch, + A torch that's borne upright. + Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on + In the red and smoky light. + + I pray'd and turn'd my head away + Forth looking as before. + There was no breeze upon the bay, + No wave against the shore. + + The rock shone bright, the kirk no less + That stands above the rock: + The moonlight steep'd in silentness + The steady weathercock. + + And the bay was white with silent light, + Till rising from the same + Full many shapes, that shadows were, + In crimson colours came. + + A little distance from the prow + Those crimson shadows were: + I turn'd my eyes upon the deck-- + O Christ! what saw I there? + + Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; + And by the Holy rood + A man all light, a seraph-man, + On every corse there stood. + + This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand: + It was a heavenly sight: + They stood as signals to the land, + Each one a lovely light: + + This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand, + No voice did they impart-- + No voice; but O! the silence sank, + Like music on my heart. + + Eftsones I heard the dash of oars, + I heard the pilot's cheer: + My head was turn'd perforce away + And I saw a boat appear. + + Then vanish'd all the lovely lights; + The bodies rose anew: + With silent pace, each to his place, + Came back the ghastly crew. + The wind, that shade nor motion made, + On me alone it blew. + + The pilot, and the pilot's boy + I heard them coming fast: + Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy, + The dead men could not blast. + + I saw a third--I heard his voice: + It is the Hermit good! + He singeth loud his godly hymns + That he makes in the wood. + He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away + The Albatross's blood. + + +VII. + + This Hermit good lives in that wood + Which slopes down to the Sea. + How loudly his sweet voice he rears! + He loves to talk with Marineres + That come from a far Contrée. + + He kneels at morn and noon and eve-- + He hath a cushion plump: + It is the moss, that wholly hides + The rotted old Oak-stump. + + The Skiff-boat ne'rd: I heard them talk, + "Why, this is strange, I trow! + "Where are those lights so many and fair + "That signal made but now? + + "Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said-- + "And they answer'd not our cheer. + "The planks look warp'd, and see those sails + "How thin they are and sere! + "I never saw aught like to them + "Unless perchance it were + + "The skeletons of leaves that lag + "My forest brook along: + "When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow, + "And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below + "That eats the she-wolf's young. + + "Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look"-- + (The Pilot made reply) + "I am a-fear'd.--"Push on, push on!" + Said the Hermit cheerily. + + The Boat came closer to the Ship, + But I ne spake ne stirr'd! + The Boat came close beneath the Ship, + And strait a sound was heard! + + Under the water it rumbled on, + Still louder and more dread: + It reach'd the Ship, it split the bay; + The Ship went down like lead. + + Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, + Which sky and ocean smote: + Like one that hath been seven days drown'd + My body lay afloat: + But, swift as dreams, myself I found + Within the Pilot's boat. + + Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship, + The boat spun round and round: + And all was still, save that the hill + Was telling of the sound. + + I mov'd my lips: the Pilot shriek'd + And fell down in a fit. + The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyes + And pray'd where he did sit. + + I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, + Who now doth crazy go, + Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while + His eyes went to and fro, + "Ha! ha!" quoth he--"full plain I see, + "The devil knows how to row." + + And now all in mine own Countrée + I stood on the firm land! + The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, + And scarcely he could stand. + + "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!" + The Hermit cross'd his brow-- + "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say + "What manner man art thou?" + + Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd + With a woeful agony, + Which forc'd me to begin my tale + And then it left me free. + + Since then at an uncertain hour, + Now oftimes and now fewer, + That anguish comes and makes me tell + My ghastly aventure. + + I pass, like night, from land to land; + I have strange power of speech; + The moment that his face I see + I know the man that must hear me; + To him my tale I teach. + + What loud uproar bursts from that door! + The Wedding-guests are there; + But in the Garden-bower the Bride + And Bride-maids singing are: + And hark the little Vesper-bell + Which biddeth me to prayer. + + O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been + Alone on a wide wide sea: + So lonely 'twas, that God himself + Scarce seemed there to be. + + O sweeter than the Marriage-feast, + 'Tis sweeter far to me + To walk together to the Kirk + With a goodly company. + + To walk together to the Kirk + And all together pray, + While each to his great father bends, + Old men, and babes, and loving friends, + And Youths, and Maidens gay. + + Farewell, farewell! but this I tell + To thee, thou wedding-guest! + He prayeth well who loveth well + Both man and bird and beast. + + He prayeth best who loveth best, + All things both great and small: + For the dear God, who loveth us, + He made and loveth all. + + The Marinere, whose eye is bright, + Whose beard with age is hoar, + Is gone; and now the wedding-guest + Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. + + He went, like one that hath been stunn'd + And is of sense forlorn: + A sadder and a wiser man + He rose the morrow morn. + + + +THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. + + + FOSTER-MOTHER. + I never saw the man whom you describe. + + MARIA. + 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly + As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother. + + FOSTER-MOTHER. + Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, + That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, + As often as I think of those dear times + When you two little ones would stand at eve + On each side of my chair, and make me learn + All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk + In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you-- + 'Tis more like heaven to come than what _has_ been. + + MARIA. + O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me + Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon + Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, + Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye + She gazes idly!--But that entrance, Mother! + + FOSTER-MOTHER. + Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! + + MARIA. + No one. + + FOSTER-MOTHER + My husband's father told it me, + Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul! + He was a woodman, and could fell and saw + With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam + Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? + Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree + He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined + With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool + As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, + And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost. + And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, + A pretty boy, but most unteachable-- + And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, + But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, + And whistled, as he were a bird himself: + And all the autumn 'twas his only play + To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them + With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. + A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, + A grey-haired man--he loved this little boy, + The boy loved him--and, when the Friar taught him, + He soon could write with the pen: and from that time, + Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. + So he became a very learned youth. + But Oh! poor wretch!--he read, and read, and read, + 'Till his brain turned--and ere his twentieth year, + He had unlawful thoughts of many things: + And though he prayed, he never loved to pray + With holy men, nor in a holy place-- + But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, + The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him. + And once, as by the north side of the Chapel + They stood together, chained in deep discourse, + The earth heaved under them with such a groan, + That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen + Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened; + A fever seized him, and he made confession + Of all the heretical and lawless talk + Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized + And cast into that hole. My husband's father + Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart: + And once as he was working in the cellar, + He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, + Who sung a doleful song about green fields, + How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, + To hunt for food, and be a naked man, + And wander up and down at liberty. + He always doted on the youth, and now + His love grew desperate; and defying death, + He made that cunning entrance I described: + And the young man escaped. + + MARIA. + 'Tis a sweet tale: + Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, + His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.-- + And what became of him? + + FOSTER-MOTHER. + He went on ship-board + With those bold voyagers, who made discovery + Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother + Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, + He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, + Soon after they arrived in that new world, + In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, + And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight + Up a great river, great as any sea, + And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed, + He lived and died among the savage men. + + + +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. + + + --Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands + Far from all human dwelling: what if here + No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; + What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; + Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, + That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind + By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. + + --Who he was + That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod + First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, + Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, + I well remember.--He was one who own'd + No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd, + And big with lofty views, he to the world + Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint + Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, + And scorn, against all enemies prepared, + All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped + At once, with rash disdain he turned away, + And with the food of pride sustained his soul + In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs + Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, + His only visitants a straggling sheep, + The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; + And on these barren rocks, with juniper, + And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, + Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour + A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here + An emblem of his own unfruitful life: + And lifting up his head, he then would gaze + On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis + Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became + Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain + The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, + Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, + Warm from the labours of benevolence, + The world, and man himself, appeared a scene + Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh + With mournful joy, to think that others felt + What he must never feel: and so, lost man! + On visionary views would fancy feed, + Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale + He died, this seat his only monument. + + If thou be one whose heart the holy forms + Of young imagination have kept pure, + Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, + Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, + Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt + For any living thing, hath faculties + Which he has never used; that thought with him + Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye + Is ever on himself, doth look on one, + The least of nature's works, one who might move + The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds + Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou! + Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, + True dignity abides with him alone + Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, + Can still suspect, and still revere himself, + In lowliness of heart. + + + +THE NIGHTINGALE; + +A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798. + + + No cloud, no relique of the sunken day + Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip + Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. + Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge! + You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, + But hear no murmuring: it flows silently + O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, + A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim, + Yet let us think upon the vernal showers + That gladden the green earth, and we shall find + A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. + And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, + "Most musical, most melancholy"[1] Bird! + A melancholy Bird? O idle thought! + In nature there is nothing melancholy. + --But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd + With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, + Or slow distemper or neglected love, + (And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself + And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale + Of his own sorrows) he and such as he + First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain; + And many a poet echoes the conceit, + Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme + When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs + Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell + By sun or moonlight, to the influxes + Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements + Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song + And of his fame forgetful! so his fame + Should share in nature's immortality, + A venerable thing! and so his song + Should make all nature lovelier, and itself + Be lov'd, like nature!--But 'twill not be so; + And youths and maidens most poetical + Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring + In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still + Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs + O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. + My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt + A different lore: we may not thus profane + Nature's sweet voices always full of love + And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale + That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates + With fast thick warble his delicious notes, + As he were fearful, that an April night + Would be too short for him to utter forth + His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul + Of all its music! And I know a grove + Of large extent, hard by a castle huge + Which the great lord inhabits not: and so + This grove is wild with tangling underwood, + And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, + Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. + But never elsewhere in one place I knew + So many Nightingales: and far and near + In wood and thicket over the wide grove + They answer and provoke each other's songs-- + With skirmish and capricious passagings, + And murmurs musical and swift jug jug + And one low piping sound more sweet than all-- + Stirring the air with such an harmony, + That should you close your eyes, you might almost + Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, + Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd, + You may perchance behold them on the twigs, + Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, + Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade + Lights up her love-torch. + + A most gentle maid + Who dwelleth in her hospitable home + Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, + (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate + To something more than nature in the grove) + Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes, + That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, + What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, + Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon + Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky + With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds + Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, + As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept + An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd + Many a Nightingale perch giddily + On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, + And to that motion tune his wanton song, + Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. + + Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, + And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! + We have been loitering long and pleasantly, + And now for our dear homes.--That strain again! + Full fain it would delay me!--My dear Babe, + Who, capable of no articulate sound, + Mars all things with his imitative lisp, + How he would place his hand beside his ear, + His little hand, the small forefinger up, + And bid us listen! And I deem it wise + To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well + The evening star: and once when he awoke + In most distressful mood (some inward pain + Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) + I hurried with him to our orchard plot, + And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once + Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, + While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears + Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well-- + It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven + Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up + Familiar with these songs, that with the night + He may associate Joy! Once more farewell, + Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell. + + + [1] "_Most musical, most melancholy_." 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 _dramatic_ 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. + + + +THE FEMALE VAGRANT. + + + By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, + (The Woman thus her artless story told) + One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood + Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. + Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: + With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore + My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold + High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, + A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. + + My father was a good and pious man, + An honest man by honest parents bred, + And I believe that, soon as I began + To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, + And in his hearing there my prayers I said: + And afterwards, by my good father taught, + I read, and loved the books in which I read; + For books in every neighbouring house I sought, + And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. + + Can I forget what charms did once adorn + My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, + And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? + The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; + The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; + My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; + The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; + The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, + From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. + + The staff I yet remember which upbore + The bending body of my active sire; + His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore + When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; + When market-morning came, the neat attire + With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd; + My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, + When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; + The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd. + + The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- + Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: + Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, + And cottage after cottage owned its sway, + No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray + Through pastures not his own, the master took; + My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; + He loved his old hereditary nook, + And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. + + But, when he had refused the proffered gold, + To cruel injuries he became a prey, + Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold: + His troubles grew upon him day by day, + Till all his substance fell into decay. + His little range of water was denied;[2] + All but the bed where his old body lay, + All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, + We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. + + Can I forget that miserable hour, + When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, + Peering above the trees, the steeple tower, + That on his marriage-day sweet music made? + Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid, + Close by my mother in their native bowers: + Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,-- + I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers, + Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! + + There was a youth whom I had loved so long, + That when I loved him not I cannot say. + 'Mid the green mountains many and many a song + We two had sung, like little birds in May. + When we began to tire of childish play + We seemed still more and more to prize each other: + We talked of marriage and our marriage day; + And I in truth did love him like a brother, + For never could I hope to meet with such another. + + His father said, that to a distant town + He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. + What tears of bitter grief till then unknown! + What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! + To him we turned:--we had no other aid. + Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, + And her whom he had loved in joy, he said + He well could love in grief: his faith he kept; + And in a quiet home once more my father slept. + + Four years each day with daily bread was blest, + By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. + Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; + And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, + And knew not why. My happy father died + When sad distress reduced the children's meal: + Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide + The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, + And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal. + + 'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come; + We had no hope, and no relief could gain. + But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum + Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain. + My husband's arms now only served to strain + Me and his children hungering in his view: + In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: + To join those miserable men he flew; + And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. + + There foul neglect for months and months we bore, + Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. + Green fields before us and our native shore, + By fever, from polluted air incurred, + Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. + Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, + 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, + That happier days we never more must view: + The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew, + + But from delay the summer calms were past. + On as we drove, the equinoctial deep + Ran mountains--high before the howling blaft. + We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep + Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, + Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, + Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, + That we the mercy of the waves should rue. + We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew. + + Oh! dreadful price of being to resign + All that is dear _in_ being! better far + In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, + Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; + Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, + Better our dying bodies to obtrude, + Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, + Protract a curst existence, with the brood + That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood. + + The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, + Disease and famine, agony and fear, + In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, + It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. + All perished--all, in one remorseless year, + Husband and children! one by one, by sword + And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear + Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board + A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. + + Peaceful as some immeasurable plain + By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, + In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. + The very ocean has its hour of rest, + That comes not to the human mourner's breast. + Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, + A heavenly silence did the waves invest; + I looked and looked along the silent air, + Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. + + Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! + And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke, + Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! + The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke! + The shriek that from the distant battle broke! + The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host + Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke + To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd, + Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! + + Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, + When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, + While like a sea the storming army came, + And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, + And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape + Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! + But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! + --For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, + And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. + + Some mighty gulph of separation past, + I seemed transported to another world:-- + A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast + The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd, + And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled + The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home, + And from all hope I was forever hurled. + For me--farthest from earthly port to roam + Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. + + And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought + At last my feet a resting-place had found: + Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) + Roaming the illimitable waters round; + Here watch, of every human friend disowned, + All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood-- + To break my dream the vessel reached its bound: + And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, + And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. + + By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, + Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; + Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, + Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. + I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock + From the cross timber of an out-house hung; + How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock! + At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, + Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue. + + So passed another day, and so the third: + Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, + In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd, + Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort: + There, pains which nature could no more support, + With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; + Dizzy my brain, with interruption short + Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl, + And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. + + Recovery came with food: but still, my brain + Was weak, nor of the past had memory. + I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain + Of many things which never troubled me; + Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, + Of looks where common kindness had no part, + Of service done with careless cruelty, + Fretting the fever round the languid heart, + And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start. + + These things just served to stir the torpid sense, + Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. + Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence + Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, + At houses, men, and common light, amazed. + The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, + Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; + The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired, + And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired. + + My heart is touched to think that men like these, + The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: + How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! + And their long holiday that feared not grief, + For all belonged to all, and each was chief. + No plough their sinews strained; on grating road + No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf + In every vale for their delight was stowed: + For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. + + Semblance, with straw and pauniered ass, they made + Of potters wandering on from door to door: + But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, + And other joys my fancy to allure; + The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor + In barn uplighted, and companions boon + Well met from far with revelry secure, + In depth of forest glade, when jocund June + Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. + + But ill it suited me, in journey dark + O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch; + To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark. + Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch; + The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, + The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, + And ear still busy on its nightly watch, + Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill; + Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. + + What could I do, unaided and unblest? + Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine: + And kindred of dead husband are at best + Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, + With little kindness would to me incline. + Ill was I then for toil or service fit: + With tears whose course no effort could confine, + By high-way side forgetful would I sit + Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. + + I lived upon the mercy of the fields, + And oft of cruelty the sky accused; + On hazard, or what general bounty yields, + Now coldly given, now utterly refused, + The fields I for my bed have often used: + But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth + Is, that I have my inner self abused, + Foregone the home delight of constant truth, + And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. + + Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, + In tears, the sun towards that country tend + Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: + And now across this moor my steps I bend-- + Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend + Have I.--She ceased, and weeping turned away, + As if because her tale was at an end + She wept;--because she had no more to say + Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. + + + [2] 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. + + + +GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY. + + + Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? + What is't that ails young Harry Gill? + That evermore his teeth they chatter, + Chatter, chatter, chatter still. + Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, + Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; + He has a blanket on his back, + And coats enough to smother nine. + + In March, December, and in July, + "Tis all the same with Harry Gill; + The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, + His teeth they chatter, chatter still. + At night, at morning, and at noon, + 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; + Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, + His teeth they chatter, chatter still. + + Young Harry was a lusty drover, + And who so stout of limb as he? + His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, + His voice was like the voice of three. + Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, + Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad; + And any man who pass'd her door, + Might see how poor a hut she had. + + All day she spun in her poor dwelling, + And then her three hours' work at night! + Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, + It would not pay for candle-light. + --This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, + Her hut was on a cold hill-side, + And in that country coals are dear, + For they come far by wind and tide. + + By the same fire to boil their pottage, + Two poor old dames, as I have known, + Will often live in one small cottage, + But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. + 'Twas well enough when summer came, + The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, + Then at her door the _canty_ dame + Would sit, as any linnet gay. + + But when the ice our streams did fetter, + Oh! then how her old bones would shake! + You would have said, if you had met her, + 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. + Her evenings then were dull and dead; + Sad case it was, as you may think, + For very cold to go to bed, + And then for cold not sleep a wink. + + Oh joy for her! when e'er in winter + The winds at night had made a rout, + And scatter'd many a lusty splinter, + And many a rotten bough about. + Yet never had she, well or sick, + As every man who knew her says, + A pile before-hand, wood or stick, + Enough to warm her for three days. + + Now, when the frost was past enduring, + And made her poor old bones to ache, + Could any thing be more alluring, + Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? + And now and then, it must be said, + When her old bones were cold and chill, + She left her fire, or left her bed, + To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. + + Now Harry he had long suspected + This trespass of old Goody Blake, + And vow'd that she should be detected, + And he on her would vengeance take. + And oft from his warm fire he'd go, + And to the fields his road would take, + And there, at night, in frost and snow, + He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake. + + And once, behind a rick of barley, + Thus looking out did Harry stand; + The moon was full and shining clearly, + And crisp with frost the stubble-land. + --He hears a noise--he's all awake-- + Again?--on tip-toe down the hill + He softly creeps--'Tis Goody Blake, + She's at the hedge of Harry Gill. + + Right glad was he when he beheld her: + Stick after stick did Goody pull, + He stood behind a bush of elder, + Till she had filled her apron full. + When with her load she turned about, + The bye-road back again to take, + He started forward with a shout, + And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. + + And fiercely by the arm he took her, + And by the arm he held her fast, + And fiercely by the arm he shook her, + And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" + Then Goody, who had nothing said, + Her bundle from her lap let fall; + And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd + To God that is the judge of all. + + She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, + While Harry held her by the arm-- + "God! who art never out of hearing, + "O may he never more be warm!" + The cold, cold moon above her head, + Thus on her knees did Goody pray, + Young Harry heard what she had said, + And icy-cold he turned away. + + He went complaining all the morrow + That he was cold and very chill: + His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, + Alas! that day for Harry Gill! + That day he wore a riding-coat, + But not a whit the warmer he: + Another was on Thursday brought, + And ere the Sabbath he had three. + + 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, + And blankets were about him pinn'd; + Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, + Like a loose casement in the wind. + And Harry's flesh it fell away; + And all who see him say 'tis plain, + That, live as long as live he may, + He never will be warm again. + + No word to any man he utters, + A-bed or up, to young or old; + But ever to himself he mutters, + "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." + A-bed or up, by night or day; + His teeth they chatter, chatter still. + Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, + Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. + + + +LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE +BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED. + + + It is the first mild day of March: + Each minute sweeter than before, + The red-breast sings from the tall larch + That stands beside our door. + + There is a blessing in the air, + Which seems a sense of joy to yield + To the bare trees, and mountains bare, + And grass in the green field. + + My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) + Now that our morning meal is done, + Make haste, your morning task resign; + Come forth and feel the sun. + + Edward will come with you, and pray, + Put on with speed your woodland dress, + And bring no book, for this one day + We'll give to idleness. + + No joyless forms shall regulate + Our living Calendar: + We from to-day, my friend, will date + The opening of the year. + + Love, now an universal birth. + From heart to heart is stealing, + From earth to man, from man to earth, + --It is the hour of feeling. + + One moment now may give us more + Than fifty years of reason; + Our minds shall drink at every pore + The spirit of the season. + + Some silent laws our hearts may make, + Which they shall long obey; + We for the year to come may take + Our temper from to-day. + + And from the blessed power that rolls + About, below, above; + We'll frame the measure of our souls, + They shall be tuned to love. + + Then come, my sister! come, I pray, + With speed put on your woodland dress, + And bring no book; for this one day + We'll give to idleness. + + + +SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. + + + In the sweet shire of Cardigan, + Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, + An old man dwells, a little man, + I've heard he once was tall. + Of years he has upon his back, + No doubt, a burthen weighty; + He says he is three score and ten, + But others say he's eighty. + + A long blue livery-coat has he, + That's fair behind, and fair before; + Yet, meet him where you will, you see + At once that he is poor. + Full five and twenty years he lived + A running huntsman merry; + And, though he has but one eye left, + His cheek is like a cherry. + + No man like him the horn could sound. + And no man was so full of glee; + To say the least, four counties round + Had heard of Simon Lee; + His master's dead, and no one now + Dwells in the hall of Ivor; + Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; + He is the sole survivor. + + His hunting feats have him bereft + Of his right eye, as you may see: + And then, what limbs those feats have left + To poor old Simon Lee! + He has no son, he has no child, + His wife, an aged woman, + Lives with him, near the waterfall, + Upon the village common. + + And he is lean and he is sick, + His little body's half awry + His ancles they are swoln and thick + His legs are thin and dry. + When he was young he little knew + Of husbandry or tillage; + And now he's forced to work, though weak, + --The weakest in the village. + + He all the country could outrun, + Could leave both man and horse behind; + And often, ere the race was done, + He reeled and was stone-blind. + And still there's something in the world + At which his heart rejoices; + For when the chiming hounds are out, + He dearly loves their voices! + + Old Ruth works out of doors with him, + And does what Simon cannot do; + For she, not over stout of limb, + Is stouter of the two. + And though you with your utmost skill + From labour could not wean them, + Alas! 'tis very little, all + Which they can do between them. + + Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, + Not twenty paces from the door, + A scrap of land they have, but they + Are poorest of the poor. + This scrap of land he from the heath + Enclosed when he was stronger; + But what avails the land to them, + Which they can till no longer? + + Few months of life has he in store, + As he to you will tell, + For still, the more he works, the more + His poor old ancles swell. + My gentle reader, I perceive + How patiently you've waited, + And I'm afraid that you expect + Some tale will be related. + + O reader! had you in your mind + Such stores as silent thought can bring, + O gentle reader! you would find + A tale in every thing. + What more I have to say is short, + I hope you'll kindly take it; + It is no tale; but should you think, + Perhaps a tale you'll make it. + + One summer-day I chanced to see + This old man doing all he could + About the root of an old tree, + A stump of rotten wood. + The mattock totter'd in his hand; + So vain was his endeavour + That at the root of the old tree + He might have worked for ever. + + "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, + Give me your tool" to him I said; + And at the word right gladly he + Received my proffer'd aid. + I struck, and with a single blow + The tangled root I sever'd, + At which the poor old man so long + And vainly had endeavour'd. + + The tears into his eyes were brought, + And thanks and praises seemed to run + So fast out of his heart, I thought + They never would have done. + --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds + With coldness still returning. + Alas! the gratitude of men + Has oftner left me mourning. + + + +ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. + + + I have a boy of five years old, + His face is fair and fresh to see; + His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, + And dearly he loves me. + + One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, + Our quiet house all full in view, + And held such intermitted talk + As we are wont to do. + + My thoughts on former pleasures ran; + I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, + My pleasant home, when spring began, + A long, long year before. + + A day it was when I could bear + To think, and think, and think again; + With so much happiness to spare, + I could not feel a pain. + + My boy was by my side, so slim + And graceful in his rustic dress! + And oftentimes I talked to him, + In very idleness. + + The young lambs ran a pretty race; + The morning sun shone bright and warm; + "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, + "And so is Liswyn farm. + + "My little boy, which like you more," + I said and took him by the arm-- + "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, + "Or here at Liswyn farm?" + + "And tell me, had you rather be," + I said and held him by the arm, + "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, + "Or here at Liswyn farm?" + + In careless mood he looked at me, + While still I held him by the arm, + And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be + "Than here at Liswyn farm." + + "Now, little Edward, say why so; + My little Edward, tell me why;" + "I cannot tell, I do not know," + "Why this is strange," said I. + + "For, here are woods and green-hills warm; + "There surely must some reason be + "Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm + "For Kilve by the green sea." + + At this, my boy, so fair and slim, + Hung down his head, nor made reply; + And five times did I say to him, + "Why? Edward, tell me why?" + + His head he raised--there was in sight, + It caught his eye, he saw it plain-- + Upon the house-top, glittering bright, + A broad and gilded vane. + + Then did the boy his tongue unlock, + And thus to me he made reply; + "At Kilve there was no weather-cock, + "And that's the reason why." + + Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart + For better lore would seldom yearn, + Could I but teach the hundredth part + Of what from thee I learn. + + + +WE ARE SEVEN. + + + A simple child, dear brother Jim, + That lightly draws its breath, + And feels its life in every limb, + What should it know of death? + + I met a little cottage girl, + She was eight years old, she said; + Her hair was thick with many a curl + That cluster'd round her head. + + She had a rustic, woodland air, + And she was wildly clad; + Her eyes were fair, and very fair, + --Her beauty made me glad. + + "Sisters and brothers, little maid, + "How many may you be?" + "How many? seven in all," she said, + And wondering looked at me. + + "And where are they, I pray you tell?" + She answered, "Seven are we, + "And two of us at Conway dwell, + "And two are gone to sea. + + "Two of us in the church-yard lie, + "My sister and my brother, + "And in the church-yard cottage, I + "Dwell near them with my mother." + + "You say that two at Conway dwell, + "And two are gone to sea, + "Yet you are seven; I pray you tell + "Sweet Maid, how this may be?" + + Then did the little Maid reply, + "Seven boys and girls are we; + "Two of us in the church-yard lie, + "Beneath the church-yard tree." + + "You run about, my little maid, + "Your limbs they are alive; + "If two are in the church-yard laid, + "Then ye are only five." + + "Their graves are green, they may be seen," + The little Maid replied, + "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, + "And they are side by side. + + "My stockings there I often knit, + "My 'kerchief there I hem; + "And there upon the ground I sit-- + "I sit and sing to them. + + "And often after sunset, Sir, + "When it is light and fair, + "I take my little porringer, + "And eat my supper there. + + "The first that died was little Jane; + "In bed she moaning lay, + "Till God released her of her pain, + "And then she went away. + + "So in the church-yard she was laid, + "And all the summer dry, + "Together round her grave we played, + "My brother John and I. + + "And when the ground was white with snow, + "And I could run and slide, + "My brother John was forced to go, + "And he lies by her side." + + "How many are you then," said I, + "If they two are in Heaven?" + The little Maiden did reply, + "O Master! we are seven." + + "But they are dead; those two are dead! + "Their spirits are in heaven!" + 'Twas throwing words away; for still + The little Maid would have her will, + And said, "Nay, we are seven!" + + + +LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. + + + I heard a thousand blended notes, + While in a grove I sate reclined, + In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts + Bring sad thoughts to the mind. + + To her fair works did nature link + The human soul that through me ran; + And much it griev'd my heart to think + What man has made of man. + + Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, + The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; + And 'tis my faith that every flower + Enjoys the air it breathes. + + The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: + Their thoughts I cannot measure, + But the least motion which they made, + It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. + + The budding twigs spread out their fan, + To catch the breezy air; + And I must think, do all I can, + That there was pleasure there. + + If I these thoughts may not prevent, + If such be of my creed the plan, + Have I not reason to lament + What man has made of man? + + + +THE THORN. + + +I. + + There is a thorn; it looks so old, + In truth you'd find it hard to say, + How it could ever have been young, + It looks so old and grey. + Not higher than a two-years' child, + It stands erect this aged thorn; + No leaves it has, no thorny points; + It is a mass of knotted joints, + A wretched thing forlorn. + It stands erect, and like a stone + With lichens it is overgrown. + + +II. + + Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown + With lichens to the very top, + And hung with heavy tufts of moss, + A melancholy crop: + Up from the earth these mosses creep, + And this poor thorn they clasp it round + So close, you'd say that they were bent + With plain and manifest intent, + To drag it to the ground; + And all had joined in one endeavour + To bury this poor thorn for ever. + + +III. + + High on a mountain's highest ridge, + Where oft the stormy winter gale + Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds + It sweeps from vale to vale; + Not five yards from the mountain-path, + This thorn you on your left espy; + And to the left, three yards beyond, + You see a little muddy pond + Of water, never dry; + I've measured it from side to side: + 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. + + +IV. + + And close beside this aged thorn, + There is a fresh and lovely sight, + A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, + Just half a foot in height. + All lovely colours there you see, + All colours that were ever seen, + And mossy network too is there, + As if by hand of lady fair + The work had woven been, + And cups, the darlings of the eye, + So deep is their vermilion dye. + + +V. + + Ah me! what lovely tints are there! + Of olive-green and scarlet bright, + In spikes, in branches, and in stars, + Green, red, and pearly white. + This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss + Which close beside the thorn you see, + So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, + Is like an infant's grave in size + As like as like can be: + But never, never any where, + An infant's grave was half so fair. + + +VI. + + Now would you see this aged thorn, + This pond and beauteous hill of moss, + You must take care and chuse your time + The mountain when to cross. + For oft there sits, between the heap + That's like an infant's grave in size, + And that same pond of which I spoke, + A woman in a scarlet cloak, + And to herself she cries, + "Oh misery! oh misery! + "Oh woe is me! oh misery!" + + +VII. + + At all times of the day and night + This wretched woman thither goes, + And she is known to every star, + And every wind that blows; + And there beside the thorn she sits + When the blue day-light's in the skies, + And when the whirlwind's on the hill, + Or frosty air is keen and still, + And to herself she cries, + "Oh misery! oh misery! + "Oh woe is me! oh misery!" + + +VIII. + + "Now wherefore thus, by day and night, + "In rain, in tempest, and in snow, + "Thus to the dreary mountain-top + "Does this poor woman go? + "And why sits she beside the thorn + "When the blue day-light's in the sky, + "Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, + "Or frosty air is keen and still, + "And wherefore does she cry?-- + "Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why + "Does she repeat that doleful cry?" + + +IX. + + I cannot tell; I wish I could; + For the true reason no one knows, + But if you'd gladly view the spot, + The spot to which she goes; + The heap that's like an infant's grave, + The pond--and thorn, so old and grey, + Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- + And if you see her in her hut, + Then to the spot away!-- + I never heard of such as dare + Approach the spot when she is there. + + +X. + + "But wherefore to the mountain-top + "Can this unhappy woman go, + "Whatever star is in the skies, + "Whatever wind may blow?" + Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain, + I'll tell you every thing I know; + But to the thorn, and to the pond + Which is a little step beyond, + I wish that you would go: + Perhaps when you are at the place + You something of her tale may trace. + + +XI. + + I'll give you the best help I can: + Before you up the mountain go, + Up to the dreary mountain-top, + I'll tell you all I know. + Tis now some two and twenty years, + Since she (her name is Martha Ray) + Gave with a maiden's true good will + Her company to Stephen Hill; + And she was blithe and gay, + And she was happy, happy still + Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill. + + +XII. + + And they had fix'd the wedding-day, + The morning that must wed them both; + But Stephen to another maid + Had sworn another oath; + And with this other maid to church + Unthinking Stephen went-- + Poor Martha! on that woful day + A cruel, cruel fire, they say, + Into her bones was sent: + It dried her body like a cinder, + And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. + + +XIII. + + They say, full six months after this, + While yet the summer-leaves were green, + She to the mountain-top would go, + And there was often seen. + 'Tis said, a child was in her womb, + As now to any eye was plain; + She was with child, and she was mad, + Yet often she was sober sad + From her exceeding pain. + Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather + That he had died, that cruel father! + + +XIV. + + Sad case for such a brain to hold + Communion with a stirring child! + Sad case, as you may think, for one + Who had a brain so wild! + Last Christmas when we talked of this, + Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, + That in her womb the infant wrought + About its mother's heart, and brought + Her senses back again: + And when at last her time drew near, + Her looks were calm, her senses clear. + + +XV. + + No more I know, I wish I did, + And I would tell it all to you; + For what became of this poor child + There's none that ever knew: + And if a child was born or no, + There's no one that could ever tell; + And if 'twas born alive or dead, + There's no one knows, as I have said, + But some remember well, + That Martha Ray about this time + Would up the mountain often climb. + + +XVI. + + And all that winter, when at night + The wind blew from the mountain-peak, + 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, + The church-yard path to seek: + For many a time and oft were heard + Cries coming from the mountain-head, + Some plainly living voices were, + And others, I've heard many swear, + Were voices of the dead: + I cannot think, whate'er they say, + They had to do with Martha Ray. + + +XVII. + + But that she goes to this old thorn, + The thorn which I've described to you, + And there sits in a scarlet cloak, + I will be sworn is true. + For one day with my telescope, + To view the ocean wide and bright, + When to this country first I came, + Ere I had heard of Martha's name, + I climbed the mountain's height: + A storm came on, and I could see + No object higher than my knee. + + +XVIII. + + 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain, + No screen, no fence could I discover, + And then the wind! in faith, it was + A wind full ten times over. + I looked around, I thought I saw + A jutting crag, and oft' I ran, + Head-foremost, through the driving rain, + The shelter of the crag to gain, + And, as I am a man, + Instead of jutting crag, I found + A woman seated on the ground. + + +XIX. + + I did not speak--I saw her face, + Her face it was enough for me; + I turned about and heard her cry, + "O misery! O misery!" + And there she sits, until the moon + Through half the clear blue sky will go, + And when the little breezes make + The waters of the pond to shake, + As all the country know, + She shudders and you hear her cry, + "Oh misery! oh misery! + + +XX. + + "But what's the thorn? and what's the pond? + "And what's the hill of moss to her? + "And what's the creeping breeze that comes + "The little pond to stir?" + I cannot tell; but some will say + She hanged her baby on the tree, + Some say she drowned it in the pond, + Which is a little step beyond, + But all and each agree, + The little babe was buried there, + Beneath that hill of moss so fair. + + +XXI. + + I've heard the scarlet moss is red + With drops of that poor infant's blood; + But kill a new-born infant thus! + I do not think she could. + Some say, if to the pond you go, + And fix on it a steady view, + The shadow of a babe you trace, + A baby and a baby's face, + And that it looks at you; + Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain + The baby looks at you again. + + +XXII. + + And some had sworn an oath that she + Should be to public justice brought; + And for the little infant's bones + With spades they would have sought. + But then the beauteous hill of moss + Before their eyes began to stir; + And for full fifty yards around, + The grass it shook upon the ground; + But all do still aver + The little babe is buried there, + Beneath that hill of moss so fair. + + +XXIII. + + I cannot tell how this may be, + But plain it is, the thorn is bound + With heavy tufts of moss, that strive + To drag it to the ground. + And this I know, full many a time, + When she was on the mountain high, + By day, and in the silent night, + When all the stars shone clear and bright, + That I have heard her cry, + "Oh misery! oh misery! + "O woe is me! oh misery!" + + + +THE LAST OF THE FLOCK. + + + In distant countries I have been, + And yet I have not often seen + A healthy man, a man full grown + Weep in the public roads alone. + But such a one, on English ground, + And in the broad high-way, I met; + Along the broad high-way he came, + His cheeks with tears were wet. + Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; + And in his arms a lamb he had. + + He saw me, and he turned aside, + As if he wished himself to hide: + Then with his coat he made essay + To wipe those briny tears away. + I follow'd him, and said, "My friend + "What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" + --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb, + He makes my tears to flow. + To-day I fetched him from the rock; + He is the last of all my flock. + + When I was young, a single man. + And after youthful follies ran, + Though little given to care and thought, + Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought; + And other sheep from her I raised, + As healthy sheep as you might see, + And then I married, and was rich + As I could wish to be; + Of sheep I number'd a full score, + And every year encreas'd my store. + + Year after year my stock it grew, + And from this one, this single ewe, + Full fifty comely sheep I raised, + As sweet a flock as ever grazed! + Upon the mountain did they feed; + They throve, and we at home did thrive. + --This lusty lamb of all my store + Is all that is alive: + And now I care not if we die, + And perish all of poverty. + + Ten children, Sir! had I to feed, + Hard labour in a time of need! + My pride was tamed, and in our grief, + I of the parish ask'd relief. + They said I was a wealthy man; + My sheep upon the mountain fed, + And it was fit that thence I took + Whereof to buy us bread:" + "Do this; how can we give to you," + They cried, "what to the poor is due?" + + I sold a sheep as they had said, + And bought my little children bread, + And they were healthy with their food; + For me it never did me good. + A woeful time it was for me, + To see the end of all my gains, + The pretty flock which I had reared + With all my care and pains, + To see it melt like snow away! + For me it was a woeful day. + + Another still! and still another! + A little lamb, and then its mother! + It was a vein that never stopp'd, + Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd. + Till thirty were not left alive + They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, + And I may say that many a time + I wished they all were gone: + They dwindled one by one away; + For me it was a woeful day. + + To wicked deeds I was inclined, + And wicked fancies cross'd my mind, + And every man I chanc'd to see, + I thought he knew some ill of me + No peace, no comfort could I find, + No ease, within doors or without, + And crazily, and wearily, + I went my work about. + Oft-times I thought to run away; + For me it was a woeful day. + + Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, + As dear as my own children be; + For daily with my growing store + I loved my children more and more. + Alas! it was an evil time; + God cursed me in my sore distress, + I prayed, yet every day I thought + I loved my children less; + And every week, and every day, + My flock, it seemed to melt away. + + They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see! + From ten to five, from five to three, + A lamb, a weather, and a ewe; + And then at last, from three to two; + And of my fifty, yesterday + I had but only one, + And here it lies upon my arm, + Alas! and I have none; + To-day I fetched it from the rock; + It is the last of all my flock." + + + +THE DUNGEON. + + + And this place our forefathers made for man! + This is the process of our love and wisdom, + To each poor brother who offends against us-- + Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty? + Is this the only cure? Merciful God? + Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up + By ignorance and parching poverty, + His energies roll back upon his heart, + And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, + They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; + Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks-- + And this is their best cure! uncomforted + And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, + And savage faces, at the clanking hour, + Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, + By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies + Circled with evil, till his very soul + Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed + By sights of ever more deformity! + + With other ministrations thou, O nature! + Healest thy wandering and distempered child: + Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, + Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, + Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, + Till he relent, and can no more endure + To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, + Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; + But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, + His angry spirit healed and harmonized + By the benignant touch of love and beauty. + + + +THE MAD MOTHER. + + + Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, + The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, + Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, + And she came far from over the main. + She has a baby on her arm, + Or else she were alone; + And underneath the hay-stack warm, + And on the green-wood stone, + She talked and sung the woods among; + And it was in the English tongue. + + "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, + But nay, my heart is far too glad; + And I am happy when I sing + Full many a sad and doleful thing: + Then, lovely baby, do not fear! + I pray thee have no fear of me, + But, safe as in a cradle, here + My lovely baby! thou shalt be, + To thee I know too much I owe; + I cannot work thee any woe. + + A fire was once within my brain; + And in my head a dull, dull pain; + And fiendish faces one, two, three, + Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. + But then there came a sight of joy; + It came at once to do me good; + I waked, and saw my little boy, + My little boy of flesh and blood; + Oh joy for me that sight to see! + For he was here, and only he. + + Suck, little babe, oh suck again! + It cools my blood; it cools my brain; + Thy lips I feel them, baby! they + Draw from my heart the pain away. + Oh! press me with thy little hand; + It loosens something at my chest; + About that tight and deadly band + I feel thy little fingers press'd. + The breeze I see is in the tree; + It comes to cool my babe and me. + + Oh! love me, love me, little boy! + Thou art thy mother's only joy; + And do not dread the waves below, + When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; + The high crag cannot work me harm, + Nor leaping torrents when they howl; + The babe I carry on my arm, + He saves for me my precious soul; + Then happy lie, for blest am I; + Without me my sweet babe would die. + + Then do not fear, my boy! for thee + Bold as a lion I will be; + And I will always be thy guide, + Through hollow snows and rivers wide. + I'll build an Indian bower; I know + The leaves that make the softest bed: + And if from me thou wilt not go, + But still be true 'till I am dead, + My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, + As merry as the birds in spring. + + Thy father cares not for my breast, + 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: + 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue + Be changed, that was so fair to view, + 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! + My beauty, little child, is flown; + But thou wilt live with me in love, + And what if my poor cheek be brown? + 'Tis well for me; thou canst not see + How pale and wan it else would be. + + Dread not their taunts, my little life! + I am thy father's wedded wife; + And underneath the spreading tree + We two will live in honesty. + If his sweet boy he could forsake, + With me he never would have stay'd: + From him no harm my babe can take, + But he, poor man! is wretched made, + And every day we two will pray + For him that's gone and far away. + + I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; + I'll teach him how the owlet sings. + My little babe! thy lips are still, + And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. + --Where art thou gone my own dear child? + What wicked looks are those I see? + Alas! alas! that look so wild, + It never, never came from me: + If thou art mad, my pretty lad, + Then I must be for ever sad. + + Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! + For I thy own dear mother am. + My love for thee has well been tried: + I've sought thy father far and wide. + I know the poisons of the shade, + I know the earth-nuts fit for food; + Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; + We'll find thy father in the wood. + Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! + And there, my babe; we'll live for aye. + + + +THE IDIOT BOY. + + + Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, + The moon is up--the sky is blue, + The owlet in the moonlight air, + He shouts from nobody knows where; + He lengthens out his lonely shout, + Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! + + --Why bustle thus about your door, + What means this bustle, Betty Foy? + Why are you in this mighty fret? + And why on horseback have you set + Him whom you love, your idiot boy? + + Beneath the moon that shines so bright, + Till she is tired, let Betty Foy + With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; + But wherefore set upon a saddle + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy? + + There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; + Good Betty! put him down again; + His lips with joy they burr at you, + But, Betty! what has he to do + With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? + + The world will say 'tis very idle, + Bethink you of the time of night; + There's not a mother, no not one, + But when she hears what you have done, + Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright. + + But Betty's bent on her intent, + For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, + Old Susan, she who dwells alone, + Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, + As if her very life would fail. + + There's not a house within a mile. + No hand to help them in distress: + Old Susan lies a bed in pain, + And sorely puzzled are the twain, + For what she ails they cannot guess. + + And Betty's husband's at the wood, + Where by the week he doth abide, + A woodman in the distant vale; + There's none to help poor Susan Gale, + What must be done? what will betide? + + And Betty from the lane has fetched + Her pony, that is mild and good, + Whether he be in joy or pain, + Feeding at will along the lane, + Or bringing faggots from the wood. + + And he is all in travelling trim, + And by the moonlight, Betty Foy + Has up upon the saddle set, + The like was never heard of yet, + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. + + And he must post without delay + Across the bridge that's in the dale, + And by the church, and o'er the down, + To bring a doctor from the town, + Or she will die, old Susan Gale. + + There is no need of boot or spur, + There is no need of whip or wand, + For Johnny has his holly-bough, + And with a hurly-burly now + He shakes the green bough in his hand. + + And Betty o'er and o'er has told + The boy who is her best delight, + Both what to follow, what to shun, + What do, and what to leave undone, + How turn to left, and how to right. + + And Betty's most especial charge, + Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you + "Come home again, nor stop at all, + "Come home again, whate'er befal, + "My Johnny do, I pray you do." + + To this did Johnny answer make, + Both with his head, and with his hand, + And proudly shook the bridle too, + And then! his words were not a few, + Which Betty well could understand. + + And now that Johnny is just going, + Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, + She gently pats the pony's side, + On which her idiot boy must ride, + And seems no longer in a hurry. + + But when the pony moved his legs, + Oh! then for the poor idiot boy! + For joy he cannot hold the bridle, + For joy his head and heels are idle, + He's idle all for very joy. + + And while the pony moves his legs, + In Johnny's left-hand you may see, + The green bough's motionless and dead; + The moon that shines above his head + Is not more still and mute than he. + + His heart it was so full of glee, + That till full fifty yards were gone, + He quite forgot his holly whip, + And all his skill in horsemanship, + Oh! happy, happy, happy John. + + And Betty's standing at the door, + And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, + Proud of herself, and proud of him, + She sees him in his travelling trim; + How quietly her Johnny goes. + + The silence of her idiot boy, + What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! + He's at the guide-post--he turns right, + She watches till he's out of sight, + And Betty will not then depart. + + Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr, + As loud as any mill, or near it, + Meek as a lamb the pony moves, + And Johnny makes the noise he loves, + And Betty listens, glad to hear it. + + Away she hies to Susan Gale: + And Johnny's in a merry tune, + The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, + And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, + And on he goes beneath the moon. + + His steed and he right well agree, + For of this pony there's a rumour, + That should he lose his eyes and ears, + And should he live a thousand years, + He never will be out of humour. + + But then he is a horse that thinks! + And when he thinks his pace is slack; + Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, + Yet for his life he cannot tell + What he has got upon his back. + + So through the moonlight lanes they go, + And far into the moonlight dale, + And by the church, and o'er the down, + To bring a doctor from the town, + To comfort poor old Susan Gale. + + And Betty, now at Susan's side, + Is in the middle of her story, + What comfort Johnny soon will bring, + With many a most diverting thing, + Of Johnny's wit and Johnny's glory. + + And Betty's still at Susan's side: + By this time she's not quite so flurried; + Demure with porringer and plate + She sits, as if in Susan's fate + Her life and soul were buried. + + But Betty, poor good woman! she, + You plainly in her face may read it, + Could lend out of that moment's store + Five years of happiness or more, + To any that might need it. + + But yet I guess that now and then + With Betty all was not so well, + And to the road she turns her ears, + And thence full many a sound she hears, + Which she to Susan will not tell. + + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, + "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," + Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; + "They'll both be here, 'tis almost ten, + "They'll both be here before eleven." + + Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, + The clock gives warning for eleven; + 'Tis on the stroke--"If Johnny's near," + Quoth Betty "he will soon be here, + "As sure as there's a moon in heaven." + + The clock is on the stroke of twelve, + And Johnny is not yet in sight, + The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, + But Betty is not quite at ease; + And Susan has a dreadful night. + + And Betty, half an hour ago, + On Johnny vile reflections cast; + "A little idle sauntering thing!" + With other names, an endless string, + But now that time is gone and past. + + And Betty's drooping at the heart, + That happy time all past and gone, + "How can it be he is so late? + "The doctor he has made him wait, + "Susan! they'll both be here anon." + + And Susan's growing worse and worse, + And Betty's in a sad quandary; + And then there's nobody to say + If she must go or she must stay: + --She's in a sad quandary. + + The clock is on the stroke of one; + But neither Doctor nor his guide + Appear along the moonlight road, + There's neither horse nor man abroad, + And Betty's still at Susan's side. + + And Susan she begins to fear + Of sad mischances not a few, + That Johnny may perhaps be drown'd, + Or lost perhaps, and never found; + Which they must both for ever rue. + + She prefaced half a hint of this + With, "God forbid it should be true!" + At the first word that Susan said + Cried Betty, rising from the bed, + "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. + + "I must be gone, I must away, + "Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; + "Susan, we must take care of him, + "If he is hurt in life or limb"-- + "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries. + + "What can I do?" says Betty, going, + "What can I do to ease your pain? + "Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; + "I fear you're in a dreadful way, + "But I shall soon be back again." + + "Good Betty go, good Betty go, + "There's nothing that can ease my pain." + Then off she hies, but with a prayer + That God poor Susan's life would spare, + Till she comes back again. + + So, through the moonlight lane she goes, + And far into the moonlight dale; + And how she ran, and how she walked, + And all that to herself she talked, + Would surely be a tedious tale. + + In high and low, above, below, + In great and small, in round and square, + In tree and tower was Johnny seen, + In bush and brake, in black and green, + 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. + + She's past the bridge that's in the dale, + And now the thought torments her sore, + Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, + To hunt the moon that's in the brook, + And never will be heard of more. + + And now she's high upon the down, + Alone amid a prospect wide; + There's neither Johnny nor his horse, + Among the fern or in the gorse; + There's neither doctor nor his guide. + + "Oh saints! what is become of him? + "Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, + "Where he will stay till he is dead; + "Or sadly he has been misled, + "And joined the wandering gypsey-folk. + + "Or him that wicked pony's carried + "To the dark cave, the goblins' hall, + "Or in the castle he's pursuing, + "Among the ghosts, his own undoing; + "Or playing with the waterfall." + + At poor old Susan then she railed, + While to the town she posts away; + "If Susan had not been so ill, + "Alas! I should have had him still, + "My Johnny, till my dying day." + + Poor Betty! in this sad distemper, + The doctor's self would hardly spare, + Unworthy things she talked and wild, + Even he, of cattle the most mild, + The pony had his share. + + And now she's got into the town, + And to the doctor's door she hies; + Tis silence all on every side; + The town so long, the town so wide, + Is silent as the skies. + + And now she's at the doctor's door, + She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap, + The doctor at the casement shews, + His glimmering eyes that peep and doze; + And one hand rubs his old night-cap. + + "Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" + "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" + "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, + "And I have lost my poor dear boy, + "You know him--him you often see; + + "He's not so wise as some folks be," + "The devil take his wisdom!" said + The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, + "What, woman! should I know of him?" + And, grumbling, he went back to bed. + + "O woe is me! O woe is me! + "Here will I die; here will I die; + "I thought to find my Johnny here, + "But he is neither far nor near, + "Oh! what a wretched mother I!" + + She stops, she stands, she looks about, + Which way to turn she cannot tell. + Poor Betty! it would ease her pain + If she had heart to knock again; + --The clock strikes three--a dismal knell! + + Then up along the town she hies, + No wonder if her senses fail, + This piteous news so much it shock'd her, + She quite forgot to send the Doctor, + To comfort poor old Susan Gale. + + And now she's high upon the down, + And she can see a mile of road, + "Oh cruel! I'm almost three-score; + "Such night as this was ne'er before, + "There's not a single soul abroad." + + She listens, but she cannot hear + The foot of horse, the voice of man; + The streams with softest sound are flowing, + The grass you almost hear it growing, + You hear it now if e'er you can. + + The owlets through the long blue night + Are shouting to each other still: + Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob, + They lengthen out the tremulous sob, + That echoes far from hill to hill. + + Poor Betty now has lost all hope, + Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin; + A green-grown pond she just has pass'd, + And from the brink she hurries fast, + Lest she should drown herself therein. + + And now she sits her down and weeps; + Such tears she never shed before; + "Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy! + "Oh carry back my idiot boy! + "And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." + + A thought is come into her head; + "The pony he is mild and good, + "And we have always used him well; + "Perhaps he's gone along the dell, + "And carried Johnny to the wood." + + Then up she springs as if on wings; + She thinks no more of deadly sin; + If Betty fifty ponds should see, + The last of all her thoughts would be, + To drown herself therein. + + Oh reader! now that I might tell + What Johnny and his horse are doing! + What they've been doing all this time, + Oh could I put it into rhyme, + A most delightful tale pursuing! + + Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! + He with his pony now doth roam + The cliffs and peaks so high that are, + To lay his hands upon a star, + And in his pocket bring it home. + + Perhaps he's turned himself about, + His face unto his horse's tail, + And still and mute, in wonder lost, + All like a silent horseman-ghost, + He travels on along the vale. + + And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep, + A fierce and dreadful hunter he! + Yon valley, that's so trim and green, + In five months' time, should he be seen, + A desart wilderness will be. + + Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, + And like the very soul of evil, + He's galloping away, away, + And so he'll gallop on for aye, + The bane of all that dread the devil. + + I to the muses have been bound, + These fourteen years, by strong indentures; + Oh gentle muses! let me tell + But half of what to him befel, + For sure he met with strange adventures. + + Oh gentle muses! is this kind? + Why will ye thus my suit repel? + Why of your further aid bereave me? + And can ye thus unfriended leave me? + Ye muses! whom I love so well. + + Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, + Which thunders down with headlong force, + Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, + As careless as if nothing were, + Sits upright on a feeding horse? + + Unto his horse, that's feeding free, + He seems, I think, the rein to give; + Of moon or stars he takes no heed; + Of such we in romances read, + --'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live. + + And that's the very pony too. + Where is she, where is Betty Foy? + She hardly can sustain her fears; + The roaring water-fall she hears, + And cannot find her idiot boy. + + Your pony's worth his weight in gold, + Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! + She's coming from among the trees, + And now, all full in view, she sees + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. + + And Betty sees the pony too: + Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy? + It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, + 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, + He whom you love, your idiot boy. + + She looks again--her arms are up-- + She screams--she cannot move for joy; + She darts as with a torrent's force, + She almost has o'erturned the horse, + And fast she holds her idiot boy. + + And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud, + Whether in cunning or in joy, + I cannot tell; but while he laughs, + Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs, + To hear again her idiot boy. + + And now she's at the pony's tail, + And now she's at the pony's head, + On that side now, and now on this, + And almost stifled with her bliss, + A few sad tears does Betty shed. + + She kisses o'er and o'er again, + Him whom she loves, her idiot boy, + She's happy here, she's happy there, + She is uneasy every where; + Her limbs are all alive with joy. + + She pats the pony, where or when + She knows not, happy Betty Foy! + The little pony glad may be, + But he is milder far than she, + You hardly can perceive his joy. + + "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; + "You've done your best, and that is all." + She took the reins, when this was said, + And gently turned the pony's head + From the loud water-fall. + + By this the stars were almost gone, + The moon was setting on the hill, + So pale you scarcely looked at her: + The little birds began to stir, + Though yet their tongues were still. + + The pony, Betty, and her boy, + Wind slowly through the woody dale: + And who is she, be-times abroad, + That hobbles up the steep rough road? + Who is it, but old Susan Gale? + + Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, + And many dreadful fears beset her, + Both for her messenger and nurse; + And as her mind grew worse and worse, + Her body it grew better. + + She turned, she toss'd herself in bed, + On all sides doubts and terrors met her; + Point after point did she discuss; + And while her mind was fighting thus, + Her body still grew better. + + "Alas! what is become of them? + "These fears can never be endured, + "I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said, + Did Susan rise up from her bed, + As if by magic cured. + + Away she posts up hill and down, + And to the wood at length is come, + She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting; + Oh me! it is a merry meeting, + As ever was in Christendom. + + The owls have hardly sung their last, + While our four travellers homeward wend; + The owls have hooted all night long, + And with the owls began my song, + And with the owls must end. + + For while they all were travelling home, + Cried Betty, "Tell us Johnny, do, + "Where all this long night you have been, + "What you have heard, what you have seen, + "And Johnny, mind you tell us true." + + Now Johnny all night long had heard + The owls in tuneful concert strive; + No doubt too he the moon had seen; + For in the moonlight he had been + From eight o'clock till five. + + And thus to Betty's question, he + Made answer, like a traveller bold, + (His very words I give to you,) + "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, + "And the sun did shine so cold." + --Thus answered Johnny in his glory, + And that was all his travel's story. + + + +LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING. + + + How rich the wave, in front, imprest + With evening-twilight's summer hues, + While, facing thus the crimson west, + The boat her silent path pursues! + And see how dark the backward stream! + A little moment past, so smiling! + And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, + Some other loiterer beguiling. + + Such views the youthful bard allure, + But, heedless of the following gloom, + He deems their colours shall endure + 'Till peace go with him to the tomb. + --And let him nurse his fond deceit, + And what if he must die in sorrow! + Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, + Though grief and pain may come to-morrow? + + Glide gently, thus for ever glide, + O Thames! that other bards may see, + As lovely visions by thy side + As now, fair river! come to me. + Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so; + Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, + 'Till all our minds for ever flow, + As thy deep waters now are flowing. + + Vain thought! yet be as now thou art, + That in thy waters may be seen + The image of a poet's heart, + How bright, how solemn, how serene! + Such heart did once the poet bless, + Who, pouring here a[3] _later_ ditty, + Could find no refuge from distress, + But in the milder grief of pity. + + Remembrance! as we glide along, + For him suspend the dashing oar, + And pray that never child of Song + May know his freezing sorrows more. + How calm! how still! the only sound, + The dripping of the oar suspended! + --The evening darkness gathers round + By virtue's holiest powers attended. + + + [3] 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. + + + +EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. + + + "Why William, on that old grey stone, + "Thus for the length of half a day, + "Why William, sit you thus alone, + "And dream your time away? + + "Where are your books? that light bequeath'd + "To beings else forlorn and blind! + "Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd + "From dead men to their kind. + + "You look round on your mother earth, + "As if she for no purpose bore you; + "As if you were her first-born birth, + "And none had lived before you!" + + One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, + When life was sweet I knew not why, + To me my good friend Matthew spake, + And thus I made reply. + + "The eye it cannot chuse but see, + "We cannot bid the ear be still; + "Our bodies feel, where'er they be, + "Against, or with our will. + + "Nor less I deem that there are powers, + "Which of themselves our minds impress, + "That we can feed this mind of ours, + "In a wise passiveness. + + "Think you, mid all this mighty sum + "Of things for ever speaking, + "That nothing of itself will come, + "But we must still be seeking? + + "--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, + "Conversing as I may, + "I sit upon this old grey stone, + "And dream my time away." + + + +THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. + + + Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks, + Why all this toil and trouble? + Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, + Or surely you'll grow double. + + The sun above the mountain's head, + A freshening lustre mellow, + Through all the long green fields has spread, + His first sweet evening yellow. + + Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife, + Come, hear the woodland linnet, + How sweet his music; on my life + There's more of wisdom in it. + + And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! + And he is no mean preacher; + Come forth into the light of things, + Let Nature be your teacher. + + She has a world of ready wealth, + Our minds and hearts to bless-- + Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, + Truth breathed by chearfulness. + + One impulse from a vernal wood + May teach you more of man; + Of moral evil and of good, + Than all the sages can. + + Sweet is the lore which nature brings; + Our meddling intellect + Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; + --We murder to dissect. + + Enough of science and of art; + Close up these barren leaves; + Come forth, and bring with you a heart + That watches and receives. + + + +OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH. + + + The little hedge-row birds, + That peck along the road, regard him not. + He travels on, and in his face, his step, + His gait, is one expression; every limb, + His look and bending figure, all bespeak + A man who does not move with pain, but moves + With thought--He is insensibly subdued + To settled quiet: he is one by whom + All effort seems forgotten, one to whom + Long patience has such mild composure given, + That patience now doth seem a thing, of which + He hath no need. He is by nature led + To peace so perfect, that the young behold + With envy, what the old man hardly feels. + --I asked him whither he was bound, and what + The object of his journey; he replied + "Sir! I am going many miles to take + "A last leave of my son, a mariner, + "Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth, + And there is dying in an hospital." + + + +THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN + +[_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, _Hearne's Journey from Hudson's +Bay to the Northern Ocean_. 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._] + + + Before I see another day, + Oh let my body die away! + In sleep I heard the northern gleams; + The stars they were among my dreams; + In sleep did I behold the skies, + I saw the crackling flashes drive; + And yet they are upon my eyes, + And yet I am alive. + Before I see another day, + Oh let my body die away! + + My fire is dead: it knew no pain; + Yet is it dead, and I remain. + All stiff with ice the ashes lie; + And they are dead, and I will die. + When I was well, I wished to live, + For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; + But they to me no joy can give, + No pleasure now, and no desire. + Then here contented will I lie; + Alone I cannot fear to die. + + Alas! you might have dragged me on + Another day, a single one! + Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; + Too soon my heartless spirit failed; + When you were gone my limbs were stronger, + And Oh how grievously I rue, + That, afterwards, a little longer, + My friends, I did not follow you! + For strong and without pain I lay, + My friends, when you were gone away. + + My child! they gave thee to another, + A woman who was not thy mother. + When from my arms my babe they took, + On me how strangely did he look! + Through his whole body something ran, + A most strange something did I see; + --As if he strove to be a man, + That he might pull the sledge for me. + And then he stretched his arms, how wild! + Oh mercy! like a little child. + + My little joy! my little pride! + In two days more I must have died. + Then do not weep and grieve for me; + I feel I must have died with thee. + Oh wind that o'er my head art flying, + The way my friends their course did bend, + I should not feel the pain of dying, + Could I with thee a message send. + Too soon, my friends, you went away; + For I had many things to say. + + I'll follow you across the snow, + You travel heavily and slow: + In spite of all my weary pain, + I'll look upon your tents again. + My fire is dead, and snowy white + The water which beside it stood; + The wolf has come to me to-night, + And he has stolen away my food. + For ever left alone am I, + Then wherefore should I fear to die? + + My journey will be shortly run, + I shall not see another sun, + I cannot lift my limbs to know + If they have any life or no. + My poor forsaken child! if I + For once could have thee close to me, + With happy heart I then would die, + And my last thoughts would happy be, + I feel my body die away, + I shall not see another day. + + + +THE CONVICT. + + + The glory of evening was spread through the west; + --On the slope of a mountain I stood; + While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest + Rang loud through the meadow and wood. + + "And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?" + In the pain of my spirit I said, + And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair + To the cell where the convict is laid. + + The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate + Resound; and the dungeons unfold: + I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate, + That outcast of pity behold. + + His black matted head on his shoulder is bent, + And deep is the sigh of his breath, + And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent + On the fetters that link him to death. + + 'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze. + That body dismiss'd from his care; + Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays + More terrible images there. + + His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, + With wishes the past to undo; + And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, descried, + Still blackens and grows on his view. + + When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, + To his chamber the monarch is led, + All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, + And quietness pillow his head. + + But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, + And conscience her tortures appease, + 'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose; + In the comfortless vault of disease. + + When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs, + That the weight can no longer be borne, + If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, + The wretch on his pallet should turn, + + While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, + From the roots of his hair there shall start + A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain, + And terror shall leap at his heart. + + But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, + And the motion unsettles a tear; + The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, + And asks of me why I am here. + + "Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood + "With o'erweening complacence our state to compare, + "But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, + "Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share. + + "At thy name though compassion her nature resign, + "Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, + "My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, + "Would plant thee where yet thou might'st blossom again." + + + +LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS +OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798. + + + Five years have passed; five summers, with the length + Of five long winters! and again I hear + These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs + With a sweet inland murmur.[4]--Once again + Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, + Which on a wild secluded scene impress + Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect + The landscape with the quiet of the sky. + The day is come when I again repose + Here, under this dark sycamore, and view + These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, + Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, + Among the woods and copses lose themselves, + Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb + The wild green landscape. Once again I see + These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines + Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms + Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke + Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, + With some uncertain notice, as might seem, + Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, + Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire + The hermit sits alone. + + Though absent long, + These forms of beauty have not been to me, + As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: + But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din + Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, + In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, + Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, + And passing even into my purer mind + With tranquil restoration:--feelings too + Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, + As may have had no trivial influence + On that best portion of a good man's life; + His little, nameless, unremembered acts + Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, + To them I may have owed another gift, + Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, + In which the burthen of the mystery, + In which the heavy and the weary weight + Of all this unintelligible world + Is lighten'd:--that serene and blessed mood, + In which the affections gently lead us on, + Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, + And even the motion of our human blood + Almost suspended, we are laid asleep + In body, and become a living soul: + While with an eye made quiet by the power + Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, + We see into the life of things. + + If this + Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, + In darkness, and amid the many shapes + Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir + Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, + Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, + How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee + O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, + How often has my spirit turned to thee! + + And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought, + With many recognitions dim and faint, + And somewhat of a sad perplexity, + The picture of the mind revives again: + While here I stand, not only with the sense + Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts + That in this moment there is life and food + For future years. And so I dare to hope + Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first + I came among these hills; when like a roe + I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides + Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, + Wherever nature led; more like a man + Flying from something that he dreads, than one + Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then + (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, + And their glad animal movements all gone by,) + To me was all in all.--I cannot paint + What then I was. The sounding cataract + Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, + The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, + Their colours and their forms, were then to me + An appetite: a feeling and a love, + That had no need of a remoter charm, + By thought supplied, or any interest + Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past, + And all its aching joys are now no more, + And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this + Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts + Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, + Abundant recompence. For I have learned + To look on nature, not as in the hour + Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes + The still, sad music of humanity, + Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power + To chasten and subdue. And I have felt + A presence that disturbs me with the joy + Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime + Of something far more deeply interfused, + Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, + And the round ocean, and the living air, + And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, + A motion and a spirit, that impels + All thinking things, all objects of all thought, + And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still + A lover of the meadows and the woods, + And mountains; and of all that we behold + From this green earth; of all the mighty world + Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,[5] + And what perceive; well pleased to recognize + In nature and the language of the sense, + The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, + The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul + Of all my moral being. + + Nor, perchance, + If I were not thus taught, should I the more + Suffer my genial spirits to decay: + For thou art with me, here, upon the banks + Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, + My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch + The language of my former heart, and read + My former pleasures in the shooting lights + Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while + May I behold in thee what I was once, + My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, + Knowing that Nature never did betray + The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, + Through all the years of this our life, to lead + From joy to joy: for she can so inform + The mind that is within us, so impress + With quietness and beauty, and so feed + With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, + Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, + Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all + The dreary intercourse of daily life, + Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb + Our chearful faith that all which we behold + Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon + Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; + And let the misty mountain winds be free + To blow against thee: and in after years, + When these wild ecstasies shall be matured + Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind + Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, + Thy memory be as a dwelling-place + For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, + If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, + Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts + Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, + And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, + If I should be, where I no more can hear + Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams + Of past existence, wilt thou then forget + That on the banks of this delightful stream + We stood together; and that I, so long + A worshipper of Nature, hither came, + Unwearied in that service: rather say + With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal + Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, + That after many wanderings, many years + Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, + And this green pastoral landscape, were to me + More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake. + + + [4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above + Tintern. + + [5] This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of + Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect. + + + +END. + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lyrical Ballads 1798, by +William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LYRICAL BALLADS 1798 *** + +***** This file should be named 9622-8.txt or 9622-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/6/2/9622/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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