? 
 
 5 S i^ 
 
 O 
 
 IS^ 
 
 l/' 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE 
 WORDSWORTH COLLECTION 
 
 FOUNDED BY 
 CYNTHIA MORGAN ST. JOHN 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 VICTOR EMANUEL 
 
 OF THE CLASS OF I919 
 
The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924104002161 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 LYRICAL BALLADS, 
 
 AND THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS, 
 
 A NEW PREFACE, AND A SUPPLEMENTARY ESSAY. 
 
 mBBBBs mnmmmufha 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PKINTBD FOR LONGMAN, HUKST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, 
 
 PATERNO STER-ROW. 
 
 1815. 
 
> 
 
 A'^74! R<| 
 
 T. DAVISON, Lombard-ttieet, 
 VVhitefriars, London. 
 
DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART. 
 MY DEAR SIR GEORGE, 
 
 Accept my thanks for the permis- 
 sion given me to dedicate these Volumes 
 to you. — In addition to a Uvely pleasure 
 derived from general considerations, I feel, 
 upon this occasion, a particular satisfac- 
 tion; for by inscribing these Poems with 
 your Name, I seem to myself in some de- 
 gree to repay, by an appropriate honour, 
 the great obligation which I owe to one 
 part of the Collection — as having been the 
 means of first making us personally known 
 
 a 2 
 
IV DEDICATION. 
 
 to each other. Upon much of the remain- 
 der, also, you have a pecuhar claim, — for 
 several of the best pieces were composed 
 under the shade of your own groves, upon 
 the classic ground of Coleorton; where I 
 was animated by the recollection of those 
 illustrious Poets, of your Name and Family, 
 who were born in that neighbourhood ; 
 and, we may be assured, did not wander 
 with indifference by the dashing stream of 
 Grace-dieu, and among the rocks that 
 diversify the forest of Charnwood. — Nor is 
 there any one to whom such parts of this 
 Collection as have been inspired or coloured 
 by the beautiful Country from which I now 
 address you, could be presented with more 
 propriety than to yourself — who have com- 
 posed so many admirable Pictures from the 
 suggestions of the same scenery. Early in 
 life, the sublimity and beauty of this Reo-ion 
 
DEDICATION. V 
 
 excited your admiration ; and I know that 
 you are bound to it in mind by a still- 
 strengthening attachment. 
 
 Wishing and hoping that this Work, 
 with the embellishments it has received 
 from your Pencil, may survive as a lasting 
 memorial of a friendship, which I reckon 
 among the blessings of my life, 
 
 I have the honour to be. 
 
 My dear Sir George, 
 Yours most affectionately 
 
 and faithfully, 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Rydal Mounts Westmorelandy 
 February ], 1815. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 J HE observations prefixed to that portion of 
 these Volumes, which was published many years 
 ago, under the title of " Lyrical Ballads,** have 
 so little of a special application to the greater 
 part, perhaps, of this collection, as subsequently 
 enlarged and diversified, that they could not 
 with any propriety stand as an Introduction to 
 it. Not deeming it, however, expedient to 
 suppress that exposition, slight and imperfect as 
 it is, of the feelings which had determined the 
 choice of the subjects, and the principles which 
 had regulated the composition of those Pieces, 
 I have transferred it to the end of the second 
 Volume, to be attended to, or not, at the plea- 
 sure of the Reader. 
 
Vlll PREFACE- 
 
 In the Preface to that part of" The Recluse," 
 lately published under the title of " The Excur- 
 sion,*' I have alluded to a meditated arrange- 
 ment of my minor Poems, which should assist 
 the attentive Reader in perceiving their connec- 
 tion with each other, and also their subordina- 
 tion to that Work. I shall here say a few words 
 explanatory of this arrangement, as carried into 
 effect in the present Volumes. 
 
 The powers requisite for the production of 
 poetry are, first, those of observation and de- 
 scription, i.e. the ability to observe with accuracy 
 things as they are in themselves, and with fidelity 
 to describe them, unmodified by any passion or 
 feeling existing in the mind of the Describer : 
 whetlier the things depicted be actually present 
 to the senses, or have a place only in the me- 
 mory. This power, though indispensable to a 
 Poet, is one which he employs only in submis- 
 sion to necessity, and never for a continuance 
 of time ; as its exercise supposes all the higher 
 qualities of the mind to be passive, and in a 
 
PREFACE. JX 
 
 State of subjection to external objects, much 
 in the same way as the Translator or Engraver 
 ought to be to his Original. 2dly, Sensibility, — 
 which, the more exquisite it is, the wider will be 
 the range of a Poet's perceptions ; and the more 
 will he be incited to observe objects, both as they 
 exist in themselves and as re-acted upon by his 
 own mind. (The distinction between poetic 
 and human sensibility has been marked in the 
 character of the Poet delineated in the origi- 
 nal preface, before-mentioned). Srdly, Reflec- 
 tion, — which makes the Poet acquainted with 
 the value of actions, images, thoughts, and 
 feelings ; and assists the sensibility in perceiving 
 their connection with each other. 4thly, Ima- 
 gination and Fancy, — to modify, to create, and 
 to associate, othly. Invention, — by which cha- 
 racters are composed out of materials supplied 
 by observation J whether of the Poet's own heart 
 and mind, or of external life and nature; and 
 such incidents and situations produced as are 
 most impressive to the imagination, and most 
 
X PEEFACE. 
 
 fitted to do justice to the characters, sentiments, 
 and passions, which the Poet undertakes to illus- 
 trate. And, lastly, Judgment, — to decide how 
 and where, and in what degree, each of these 
 faculties ought to be exerted ; so that the less 
 shall not be sacrificed to the greater; nor the 
 greater, slighting the less, arrogate, to its own 
 injury, more than its due. By judgment, also, 
 is determined what are the laws and appropriate 
 graces of every species of composition. 
 
 The materials of Poetry, by these powers 
 collected and produced, are cast, by means of 
 various moulds, into divers forms. The moulds 
 may be enumerated, and the forms specified, in 
 the following order. 1st, the Narrative, — in- 
 cluding the Epopoeia, the Historic Poem, the 
 Tale, the Romance, the Mock-heroic, and, if the 
 spirit of Homer will tolerate such neighbour- 
 hood, that dear production of our days, the 
 metrical Novel. Of this Class, the distinguishing 
 mark, is, that the Narrator, however liberally 
 his speaking agents be introduced, is himself 
 
PREFACE, XI 
 
 the source from which every thing primarily 
 flows. Epic Poets, in order that their mode 
 of composition may accord with the elevation 
 of their subject, represent themselves as singing 
 from the inspiration of the Muse, Arma virum 
 que cano ; but this is a fiction, in modern times, 
 of slight value : the Iliad or the Paradise Lost 
 would gain little in our estimation by being 
 chaunted. The other poets who belong to this 
 class are commonly content to tell their tale;-— 
 so that of the whole it may be affirmed that they 
 neither require nor reject the accompaniment 
 of music. 
 
 2ndly, The Dramatic, — consisting of Tra- 
 gedy, Historic Drama, Comedy, and Masque ; 
 in which the poet does not appear at all in his 
 own person, and where the whole action is car- 
 ried on by speech and dialogue of the agents ; 
 music being admitted only incidentally and 
 rarely. The Opera may be placed here, in as 
 much as it proceeds by dialogue ; though de- 
 pending, to the degree that it does, upon mu- 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 sic, it has a strong claim to be ranked with the 
 Lyrical. The characteristic and impassioned 
 Epistle, of which Ovid and Pope have given 
 examples, considered as a species of mono- 
 drama, may, without impropriety, be placed in 
 this class. 
 
 3rdly, The Lyrical, — containing the Hymn, 
 the Ode, the Elegy, the Song, and the Ballad ; 
 in all which, for the production of their full 
 effect, an accompaniment of music is indis- 
 pensable. 
 
 4thly, The Idyllium, — descriptive chiefly 
 either of the processes and appearances of ex- 
 ternal nature, as the " Seasons'* of Thomson ; 
 or of characters, manners, and sentiments, as are 
 Shenstone's School-mistress, The Cotter's Satur- 
 day Night of Burns, The Twa Dogs of the 
 same Author ; or of these in conjunction with 
 the appearances of Nature, as most of the pieces 
 of Theocritus, the Allegro and Penseroso of 
 Milton, Beattie's Minstrel, Goldsmith's " De- 
 serted Village." The Epitaph, the Liscription, 
 
PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 the Sonnet, most of the epistles of poets writing 
 in their own persons, and all loco-descriptive 
 poetry, belong to this class. 
 
 stilly, Didactic, — the principal object of 
 which is direct instruction; as the Poem of 
 Lucretius, the Georgics of Virgil, " the Fleece" 
 of Dyer, Mason's " English Garden," &c. 
 
 And, lastly, philosophical satire, like that of 
 Horace and Juvenal j personal and occasional 
 Satire rarely comprehending sufficient of the 
 general in the individual to be dignified with the 
 name of Poetry. 
 
 Out of the three last classes has been con- 
 structed a composite species, of which Young's 
 Night Thoughts and Cowper's Task are excel- 
 lent examples. 
 
 It is deducible from the above, that poems, 
 apparently miscellaneous, may with propriety 
 be arranged either with reference to the powers 
 of mind predominant in the production of them ; 
 or to the mould in which they are cast; or, lastly, 
 to the subjects to which they relate. From each 
 
• 
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 of these considerations, the following Poems have 
 been divided into classes ; which, that the work 
 may more obviously correspond with the course 
 of Imman life, for the sake of xhibiting in it 
 the three requisites of a legitimate whole, 
 a beginning, a middle, and an end, have been 
 also arranged, as far as it was possible, according 
 to an order of time, commencing with Childhood, 
 and terminating with Old Age, Death, and Im- 
 mortality. My guiding wish was, that the small 
 pieces of which these volumes consist, thus dis- 
 criminated, might be regarded under a two-fold 
 view; as composing an entire work within them- 
 selves, and as adjuncts to the philosophical Poem, 
 " The Recluse." This arrangement has long 
 presented itself habitually to my own mind. 
 Nevertheless, I should have preferred to scatter 
 the contents of these volumes at random, if I 
 had been persuaded that, by the plan adopted, 
 any thing material would be taken from the na- 
 tural effect of the pieces, individually, on the 
 mind of th^ unreflecting Reader. I trust there 
 
PREFACE. .. XV 
 
 is a sufficient variety in each class to pre- 
 vent this ; while, for him who reads with re- 
 flection, the arrangement will serve as a com- 
 mentary unostentatiously directing his attention 
 to my purposes, both particular and general. 
 But, as I wish to guard against the possibility 
 of misleading by this classification, it is proper 
 first to remind the Reader, that certain poems 
 are placed according to the powers of mind, in 
 the Author's conception, predominant in the 
 production of them ; predominant^ which implies 
 the exertion of other faculties in less degree. 
 Where there is more imagination than fancy in a 
 poem it is placed under the head of imagination, 
 and vice versa. Both the above Classes might 
 without impropriety have been enlarged from- 
 that consisting of " Poems founded on the Affec- 
 tions ;" as might this latter from those, and from 
 the class " Proceeding from Sentiment and Re- 
 flection." The most striking characteristics of 
 each piece, mutual illustration, variety, and 
 proportion, have governed me throughout. 
 
 > 
 
r 
 
 XVi !• PREFACE. 
 
 ^^v^ It may be proper in this place to state, that 
 the Extracts in the 2nd Class entitled " Juvenile 
 Pieces/' are in many places altered from the 
 printed copy, chiefly by omission and compres- 
 sion. The slight alterations of another kind were 
 for the most part made not long after the pub- 
 lication of the Poems from which the Extracts 
 are taken. These Extracts seem to have a title 
 to be placed here as they were the productions 
 of youth, and represent implicitly some of the 
 features of a youthful mind,, at a time when 
 images of nature supplied to it the place of 
 thought, sentiment, and ahnost of action ; or, 
 as it will be found expressed, of a state of 
 mind when 
 
 ** 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 tho!ight supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye" — . , 
 
PREFACE. XVI 
 
 I will own that I was much at a loss what to select 
 of these descriptions ; and perhaps it would 
 have been better either to have reprinted the 
 Avhole, or suppressed what I have given. 
 
 None of the other Classes, except those of 
 Fancy and Imagination, require any particular 
 notice. But a remark of general application may 
 be made. All Poets, except the dramatic, have 
 been in the practice of feigning that their works 
 w^ere composed to the music of the harp or lyre: 
 with what degree of affectation this has been done 
 in modern times, I leave to the judicious to 
 determine. For my own part, I have not been 
 disposed to violate probability so far, or to make 
 such a large demand upon the Reader's charity. 
 Some of these pieces are essentially lyrical ; '^nd, 
 therefore, cannot have their due force without 
 a supposed musical accompaniment ; but, in 
 much the i^reatest part, as a substitute for the 
 classic lyre or romantic harp, I require nothing 
 more than an animated or impassioned i ecita- 
 tion, adapted to the subject. Poems, however 
 
 VOL. I. b 
 
XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 humble in their kind, if they be good in that 
 kind, cannot read themselves : the law of long 
 syllable and short must not be so inflexible — 
 the letter of metre must not be so impassive 
 to the spirit of versification — as to deprive the 
 Reader of a voluntary power to modulate, in 
 subordination to the sense, the music of the 
 poem ; — in the same manner as his mind is left 
 at liberty, and even summoned, to act upon its 
 thoughts and images. But, though the accom- 
 paniment of a musical instrument be frequently 
 dispensed with, the true Poet does not therefore 
 abandon his privilege distinct from that of the 
 mere Proseman ; 
 
 '^ He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own." 
 
 I come now to the consideration of the words 
 Fancy and Imagination, as employed in the 
 classification of the following Poems. '* A man," 
 says an intelligent Author, has ** imagination," 
 in proportion as he can distinctly copy in idea 
 the impressions of sense : it is the faculty which 
 
PREFACE. XIX 
 
 images within the mind the phenomena of sen- 
 sation. A man has fancy in proportion as he 
 can call up, connect, or associate, at pleasure, 
 those internal images ((pavtocKsiv is to cause to ap- 
 pear) so as to complete ideal representations of 
 absent objects. Imagination is the power of 
 depicting, and fancy of evoking and combining. 
 The imagination is formed by patient observa- 
 tion ; the fancy by a voluntary activity in shift- 
 ing the scenery of the mind. The more accu- 
 rate the imagination, the more safely may a 
 painter, or a poet, undertake a delineation, or a 
 description, without the presence of the objects 
 to be characterized. The more versatile the 
 fancy, the more original and striking will be the 
 decorations produced. — British Sij7ionyms dis- 
 criminated^ by W. Taylor. 
 
 Is not this as if a man should undertake to 
 supply an account of a building, and be so in- 
 tent upon what he had discovered of the found- 
 ation as to conclude his task without once look- 
 ing up at the superstructure? Her' as in ether 
 
 b 2 
 
XX PREFACE. 
 
 instances throughout the volume, the judicious 
 Author's mind is enthralled by Etymology; he 
 takes up the original word as his guide, his con- 
 ductor, his escort, and too often does not per- 
 ceive how soon he becomes its prisoner, without 
 liberty to tread in any path but that to which it 
 confines him. It is not easy to find out how 
 imagination, thus explained, differs from distinct 
 remembrance of images j or fancy from quick 
 and vivid recollection of them : each is nothing 
 more than a mode of memory. If the two words 
 bear the above meaning, and no other, what 
 term is left to designate that Faculty of which 
 the Poet is " all compact ;" he whose eye glances 
 from earth to heaven, whose spiritual attributes 
 body-forth what his pen is prompt in turning to 
 shape ; or what is left to characterise fancy, as 
 insinuating herself into the heart of objects with 
 creative activity ? — ■ — Imagination, in the sense 
 of the word as giving title to a Class of the fol- 
 lowing Poems, has no reference to images that 
 are merely a faithful copy, existing in the mind. 
 
PREFACE. XXI 
 
 of absent external objects; but is a word of 
 higher import, denoting operations of the mind 
 upon those objects, and processes of creation or 
 of composition, governed by certain fixed laws. 
 I proceed to illustrate my meaning by instances. 
 A parrot hangs from the wires of his cage by 
 his beak or by his claws; or a monkey from 
 the bough of a tree by his paws or his tail. 
 Each creature does so literally and actually. In 
 the first Eclogue of Virgil, the Shepherd, thinking 
 of the time when he is to take leave of his Farm, 
 thus addresses his Goats ; 
 
 " Non ego vos posthac viridi projectus in antro 
 Dumosa pendere procul de rupe ordebo." 
 
 " half way up 
 Hangs one who gathers samphire," 
 
 is the well-known expression of Shakespear, de- 
 lineating an ordinary image upon the Ciiifs of 
 Dover. In these two instances is a slight exer- 
 tion of the faculty which 1 denominate imagina- 
 tion, in the use of one word : neither the goats 
 
XXU PREFACE. 
 
 nor the samphire-gatherer do literally hang, as 
 does the parrot or the monkey ; but, presenting 
 to the senses something of such an appearance, 
 the mind in its activity, for its own gratification, 
 contemplates them as hanging. 
 
 "^ As when far off at Sea a Fleet descried 
 
 Hangs in the clouds, by equinoxial winds 
 
 Close sailing from Bengala or the Isles 
 
 Of Ternate or Tydore, whence Merchants bring 
 
 Their spicy drugs ; they on the trading flood 
 
 Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape 
 
 Ply, stemming nightly toward the Pole: so seem'd 
 
 Far off the flying Fiend.*' 
 
 Here is the full strength of the imagination 
 involved in the word, hangSy and exerted upon 
 the whole image : First, the Fleet, an as^ffresrate 
 of many Ships, is represented as one mighty Per- 
 son, whose track, we know and feel, is upon the 
 waters ; but, taking advantage of its appearance 
 to the senses, the Poet dares to represent it as 
 hani; ing in the clouds, both for the gratification 
 of the mind in contemplating the image itself. 
 
PREFACE. XXiii 
 
 and in reference to the motion and appear- 
 ance of the sublime object to which it is com- 
 pared. 
 
 From images of sight we will pass to those of 
 sound : 
 
 " Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;" 
 
 of the same bird, 
 
 " His voice was buried among trees. 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze j" 
 
 " O, Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice f" 
 
 The Stock-dove is said to coo, a sound well 
 
 imitating the note of the bird ; but, by the in- 
 tervention of the metaphor broods, the affections 
 are called in by the imagination to assist in 
 marking the manner in which the Bird reiterates 
 and prolongs her soft note, as if herself delight- 
 ing to listen to it, and participating of a still 
 and quiet satisfaction, like that which may be 
 
 supposed inseparable from the continuous pro- 
 cess of incubation. " His voice was buried 
 
XXIV PREFACE. 
 
 among trees," a metaphor expressing the love of 
 seclusiofi by which this Bird is marked: and 
 characterising its note as not partaking of the 
 shrill and the piercing, and therefore more easily 
 deadened by the intervening shade ; yet a note 
 so peculiar, and withal so pleasing, that the 
 breeze, gifted with that love of the sound ivhich 
 the Poet feels, penetrates the shade in which 
 it is entombed, and conveys it to the ear of the 
 listener. 
 
 Shall I call thee Bird 
 
 Or but a wandering Voice } 
 
 This concise interrogation characterises the 
 seeming ubiquity of the voice of the Cuckoo, 
 and dispossesses the creature almost of a corpo- 
 real existence ; the imagination being tempted 
 to this exertion of her power by a consciousness 
 in the memory that the Cuckoo is almost perpe- 
 tually heard throughout the season of Sprino-, 
 but seldom becomes an object of sight. 
 
 Thus far of images independent of each other, 
 and immediately endowed by the mind with pro- 
 
PREFACE, XXV 
 
 perties that do not inhere in them, upon an in- 
 citement from properties and qualities the ex- 
 istence of which is inherent and obvious. These 
 processes of imagination are carried on eitlier by 
 conferring additional properties upon an object, 
 or abstracting from it some of those which it 
 actually possesses, and thus enabling it to react 
 upon the mind which hath performed the pro- 
 cess, like a new existence. 
 
 I pass from the Imagination acting upon an 
 individual image to a consideration of the same 
 faculty employed upon images in a conjunction 
 by which they modify each other. The Reader 
 has already had a fine instance before him in the 
 passage quoted from Virgil, where the apparently 
 perilous situation of the Goat, hanging upon the 
 shaggy precipice, is contrasted with that of the 
 Shepherd, contemplating it from the seclusion 
 of the Cavern in which he lies stretched at ease 
 and in security. Take these images separately, 
 and how unaffecting the picture compared with 
 that produced by their being thus connected 
 with, and opposed to, each other ! 
 
XXVI PREFACE. 
 
 " As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence. 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence j 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense. 
 Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, which on a shelf 
 Of rocli or sand reposeth, there to sun himself. 
 
 Such seemed this Manj not all alive or dead, 
 Nor all asleep, ia his extreme old age. 
 Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood. 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call. 
 And moveth altogether if it move at all." 
 
 In these images, the conferring, the abstracting, 
 and the modifying powers of the Imagina- 
 tion, immediately and mediately acting, are all 
 brought into conjunction. The Stone is en- 
 dowed with something of the power of life to 
 approximate it to the Sea-beast ; and the Sea- 
 beast stripped of some of its vital qualities to as- 
 similate it to the stone; which intermediate 
 image is thus treated for the purpose of bringing 
 the original image, that of the stone, to a nearer 
 resemblance to the figure and condition of the 
 aged Man j who is divested of so much of the 
 
PREFACE. XXVU 
 
 indications of life and motion as to bring him to 
 thepoint where the two objects unite and coalesce 
 in just comparison. After what has been said, 
 the image of the Cloud need not be commented 
 upon. 
 
 Thus far of an endowing or modifying pow- 
 er : but the Imagination also shapes and creates ; 
 and how? By innumerable processes; and in 
 none does it more delight than in that of conso- 
 lidating numbers into unity, and dissolving and 
 separating unity into number, — alternations pro- 
 ceeding from, and governed by, a sublime con- 
 sciousness of the soul in her own mighty and 
 almost divine powers. Recur to the passage 
 already cited from Milton. When the compact 
 Fleet, as one Person, has been introduced " Sail- 
 ing from Bengala," " They,** i. e. the " Mer- 
 chants," representing the Fleet resolved into a 
 Multitude of Ships, * ply' their voyage towards 
 the extremities of the earth : " So" (referring to 
 the word " As" in the commencement; "seemed 
 the flying Fiend ;" the image of his Person act- 
 
XXVlll PREFACE. 
 
 ing to recombine the multitude of Ships into one 
 body, — the point from which the comparison 
 set out. " So seemed," and to whom seemed? 
 To the heavenly Muse who dictates the poem, 
 to the eye of the Poet s mind, and to that of the 
 Reader, present at one moment in the wide 
 Ethiopian, and the next in the solitudes, then 
 first broken in upon, of the infernal regions! 
 
 Modo me Thebis^ modo ponit Athenis. 
 
 Hear again this mighty Poet, — speaking of the 
 Messiah going forth to expel from Heaven the 
 rebellious Angels, 
 
 Attended by ten thousand, thousand Saints 
 He onward came : far off his coming shone, — 
 
 the retinue of Saints, and the Person of the 
 Messiah himself, lost almost and merged in the 
 splendour of that indefinite abstraction, " His 
 coming !" 
 
 As I do not mean here to treat this subject 
 further than to throw some light upon the pre- 
 sent Volumes, and especially upon one division 
 
PREFACE. XXIX 
 
 of them, I shall spare myself and the Reader the 
 trouble of considering the Imagination as it deals 
 with thoughts and sentiments, as it regulates the 
 composition of characters, and determines the 
 course of actions : I will not consider it (more 
 than I have already done by implication) as that 
 power which, in the language of one of my 
 most esteemed Friends, " draws all things to 
 one, which makes things animate or inanimate, 
 beings with their attributes, subjects with their 
 accessaries, take one colour and serve to one 
 effect*." The grand store-iiouse of enthusiastic 
 and meditative Imagination, of poetical, as con- 
 tradistinguished from human and dramatic Ima- 
 gination, is the prophetic and lyrical parts of the 
 holy Scriptures, and the works of Milton, to 
 which I cannot forbear to add those of Spenser. 
 I select these writers in preference to those of 
 ancient Greece and Rome because the an- 
 thropomorphitism of the Pagan religion sub- 
 jected the minds of the greatest poets in those 
 
 * Charles Lamb upon the genius of Hogarth. 
 
XXX PREFACE. 
 
 countries too much to the bondage of definite 
 form ; from which the Hebrews were preserved 
 bj their abhorrence of idolatry. This abhorrence 
 was ahnost as strong in our great epic Poet, both 
 from circumstances of his life, and from the 
 constitution of his mind. However imbued the 
 surface might be with classical literature, he 
 was a Hebrew in soul ; and all things tended in 
 him towards the sublime. Spenser, of a gentler 
 nature, maintained his freedom by aid of his 
 allegorical spirit, at one time inciting him to 
 create persons out of abstractions ; and at an- 
 other, by a superior effort of genius, to give the 
 universality and permanence of abstractions to 
 his human beings, by means of attributes and 
 emblems that belong to the highest moral truths 
 and thepurest sensations, — of which hischaracter 
 of Una is a glorious example. Of the human 
 and dramatic Imagination the works of Shake- 
 spear are an inexhaustible source. 
 
 " I tax not you, ye Elements, witl» unkindness, 
 
 I never gave you Kingdoms, called you Daughters." 
 
PREFACE. XXXI 
 
 And if, bearing in mind the many Poets distin- 
 guished by this prime quality, whose names I 
 
 omit to mention ; yet justified by a recollection 
 
 i 
 of the insults which the Ignorant, the Incapable, ♦ 
 
 and the Presumptuous have heaped upon these 
 and my other writings, I may be permitted 
 to anticipate the judgment of posterity upon 
 myself j I shall declare (censurable, I grant, if 
 the notoriety of the fact above stated does not 
 justify me) that I have given, in these unfavoura- 
 ble times, evidence of exertions of this faculty 
 upon its worthiest objects, the external universe., 
 the moral and religious sentiments of Man, his 
 natural affections, and his acquired passions; 
 which have the same ennobling tendency as the 
 productions of men, in this kind, worthy to be 
 holden in undying remembrance, 
 ^ I dismiss this subject with observing — that, 
 in the series of Poems placed under the head 
 of Imagination, I have begun with one of the 
 earliest processes of Nature in the development 
 of this faculty. Guided by one of my own 
 
XXXll PREFACE. 
 
 primary consciousnesses, I have represented a 
 commutation and transfer of internal feelings, 
 co-operating with external accidents to plant, 
 for immortaHty, images of sound and sight, in 
 the celestial soil of the Imagination. The Boy, 
 there introduced, is listening, with something 
 of a feverish and restless anxiety, for the recur- 
 rence of the riotous sounds which he had pre- 
 viously excited ; and, at the moment when the 
 intenseness of his mind is beginning to remit, 
 he is surprised into a perception of the solemn 
 and tranquillizing images which the Poem de- 
 scribes. — The Poems next in succession exhibit 
 the faculty exerting itself upon various objects 
 of the external universe ; then follow others, 
 where it is employed upon feelings, characters, 
 and actions ; and the Class is concluded with 
 imaginative pictures of moral, political, and re- 
 ligious sentiments. 
 
 To the mode in which Fancy has already been 
 characterized as the Power of evoking and 
 combining, oj-, as my friend Mr. Coleridge has"'' 
 
PREFACE. XXXlll 
 
 styled it, " the aggregative and associative 
 Power," my objection is only that the definition 
 is too general. To aggregate and to associate, 
 to evoke and to combine, belong as well to the 
 Imagination as to the Fancy ; but either the ma- 
 terials evoked and combined are different ; or 
 they are brought together under a different law, 
 and for a different purpose. Fancy does not 
 require that the materials which she makes 
 use of should be susceptible of change in their 
 constitution, from her touch -, and, where they 
 admit of modification, it is enough for her 
 purpose if it be slight, limited, and evanescent. 
 Directly the reverse of these, are the desires and 
 demands of the Imagination. She recoils from 
 every thing but the plastic, the pliant, and the 
 indefinite. She leaves it to Fancy to describe 
 Queen Mab as coming, 
 
 " In shape no bigger than an agate stone 
 On the fore-finger of an Alderman." 
 
 Having to speak of stature, she does not tell 
 you that her gigantic Angel was as tall as Pora- 
 voi,. I. c 
 
XXXlV PREFACE. 
 
 pey's Pillar; much less that he was twelve ctibits, 
 or twelve hundred cubits high ; or that his di- 
 mensions equalled those of Teneriffe or Atlas; — 
 because these, and if they were a million times 
 as high, it would be the same, are bounded: 
 The expression is, " His stature reached the 
 sky !" the illimitable firmament ! — When the 
 Imagination framed a comparison, if it does not 
 strike on the first presentation, a sense of the 
 truth of the likeness, from the moment that it is 
 perceived, grows — and continues to grow — upon 
 the mind ; the resemblance depending less upon 
 outline of form and feature than upon expres- 
 sion and effect, less upon casual and outstanding, 
 than upon inherent and internal, properties : — 
 moreover, the images invariably modify each 
 other. — The law under which the processes of 
 Fancy are carried on is as capricious as the acci- 
 dents of things, and the effects are surprizing, 
 playful, ludicrous, amusing, tender, or pathetic, 
 as the objects happen to be appositely produced 
 or fortunately combined. Fancy depends upon 
 
PREFACE. XXXV 
 
 the rapidity and profusion with which she scat- 
 ters her thoughts and images, trusting that 
 their number, and the felicity with which 
 they are linked together, will make amends for 
 the want of individual value : or she prides 
 herself upon the curious subtilty and the suc- 
 cessful elaboration with which she can detect 
 their lurking affinities. If she can win you 
 over to her purpose, and impart to you her feel- 
 ings, she cares not how unstable or transitory may 
 be her influence, knowing that it will not be out 
 of her power to resume it upon an apt occasion. 
 But the Imagination is conscious of ^n inde- 
 structible dominion J — the Soul may fall away 
 from it, not being able to sustain its grandeur, 
 but, if once felt and acknowledged, by no act of 
 any other faculty of the mind can it be relaxed, 
 impaired, or diminished. — Fancy is given to 
 quicken and to beguile the temporal part of 
 our Nature, Imagination to incite and to support 
 the eternal. — Yet is it not the less true that 
 Fancy, as she is an active, is also, under her 
 
 c 2 
 
XXX VI PREFACE. 
 
 own laws and in her own spirit, a creative facul- 
 ty. In what manner Fancy ambitiously aims at 
 a rivalship with the Imagination, and Imagina- 
 tion stoops to work with the materials of Fancy, 
 might be illustrated from the compositions of all 
 eloquent writers, whether in prose or verse ; and 
 chiefly from those of our own Country. Scarcely 
 a page of the impassioned parts of Bishop Tay- 
 lor's Works can be opened that shall not aiford 
 examples. — Referring the Reader to those ines- 
 timable Volumes, I will content myself with 
 placing a conceit (ascribed to Lord Chesterfield) 
 in contrast with a passage from the Paradise 
 Lost ; 
 
 " The dews of the evening most carefully shun. 
 They are the tears of the sky for the loss of the Sun." 
 
 After the transgression of Adam, Milton, with 
 other appearances of sympathizing Nature, thus 
 marks the immediate consequence, 
 
 '' Sky lowered, and muttering thunder, some sad drops 
 Wept at completion of the mortal sin." 
 
PREFACE. XXXvii 
 
 The associating link is the same in each in- 
 stance ; — dew or rain, not distinguishable from 
 the liquid substance of tears, are employed as 
 indications of sorrow. A flash of surprize is the 
 effect in the former case, a flash of surprize and 
 nothing more ; for the nature of things does not 
 sustain the combination. In the latter, the 
 effects of the act, of which there is this immediate 
 consequence and visible sign, are so moment- 
 ous that the mind acknowledges the justice and 
 reasonableness of the sympathy in Nature so 
 manifested ; and the sky weeps drops of water 
 as if with human eyes, as " Earth had, before, 
 trembled from her entrails, and Nature given a 
 second groan." " ,/ 
 
 Awe-stricken as I am by contemplating the 
 operations of the mind of this truly divine Poet, 
 I scarcely dare venture to add that " An address 
 to an Infant," which the Reader will find under the 
 Class of Fancy in the present Volumes, exhibits 
 something of this communion and interchange 
 of instruments and functions between the tw^o 
 powers ; and is, accordingly, placed last in the 
 
XXXVIU PREFACE. 
 
 class, as *a preparation for that of Imagination 
 
 which follows. 
 
 Finally, I will refer to Cotton's " Ode upon 
 
 Winter,** an admirable composition though 
 
 stained with some peculiarities of the age in 
 which he lived, for a general illustration of the 
 
 characteristics of Fancy. The middle part of 
 this ode contains a most lively description of the 
 entrance of Winter, with his retinue, as " A pal- 
 sied King,** and yet a military Monarch, — ad- 
 vancing for conquest with his Army ; the several 
 bodies of which, and their arms and equipments, 
 are described with a rapidity of detail, and a 
 profusion of^/2c/^/ comparisons, which indicate 
 on the part of the Poet extreme activity of in- 
 tellect, and a correspondent hurry of delightful 
 feeling. He retires from the Foe into his for^ 
 tress, where 
 
 ** a magazine 
 Of sovereign juice is ceUared in. 
 Liquor that will the siege maintain 
 Should Phoebus ne'er return again." 
 
 Though myself a water-drinker, I cannot resist 
 
PREFACE. XXXIX 
 
 the pleasure of transcribing what follows, as an 
 instance still more happy of Fancy employed in 
 the treatment of feeling than, in its preceding 
 passages, the Poem supplies of her management 
 of forms, 
 
 'Tis that, that gives the Poet rage. 
 And thaws the gelly'd blood of Age ; 
 Matures the Young, restores the Old, 
 And makes the fainting Coward bold. 
 
 It lays the careful head to rest^ 
 
 Calms palpitations in the breast^ 
 
 Renders our lives* misfortune sweet ; 
 ^ * * * «e- * * 
 
 Then let the chill Scirocco blow^ 
 And gird us round with hills of snow^ 
 Or else go whistle to the shore. 
 And make the hollow mountains roar. 
 
 Whilst w^ together jovial sit 
 Careless, and crown'd with mirth and wit ; 
 Where^ though bleak winds confine us home^ 
 €hxv fancies round the world shall roauL 
 
xl PREFACE. 
 
 We'll think of all the Friends we know^, 
 And drink to all worth drinking to 5 
 When having drunk all thine and mine> 
 We rather shall want healths than wine. 
 
 But where Friends fail us^ we'll supply 
 Our friendships with our charity ; 
 ^ Men that remote in sorrows live. 
 
 Shall by our lusty Brimmers thrive. 
 
 We'll drink the Wanting into Wealth, 
 And those that languish into health. 
 The Afflicted into joy 5 th^ Opprest 
 Into security and rest. 
 
 The Worthy in disgrace shall find 
 Favour return again more kind. 
 And in restraint who stifled lie^, 
 Shall taste the air of liberty. 
 
 The Brave shall triumph in success^ 
 The Lovers shall have Mistresses^ 
 Poor unregarded Virtue, praise, 
 And the neglected Poet, Bays, 
 
PREFACE. Xli 
 
 Thus sliall our healths do others good, 
 Whilst we ourselves do all we would 5 
 For, freed from envy and from care^ 
 
 r 
 
 What would we be but what we are ?" 
 
 It remains that I should express my regret 
 at the necessity of separating my compositions 
 from some beautiful Poems of Mr. Coleridge, 
 with which they have been long associated in 
 publication. The feelings, with which that joint 
 publication was made, have been gratified; 
 its end is answered, and the time is come 
 when considerations of general propriety dictate 
 the separation. Three short pieces (now first 
 published) are the work of a Female Friend ; 
 and the Reader, to whom tbey may be accepta- 
 ble, is indebted to me for his pleasure ; if any 
 one regard them with dislike, or be disposed to 
 condemn them, let the censure fall upon him, 
 who, trusting in his own sense of their merit 
 and their fitness for the place which they occupy, 
 contorted them from the Authoress. - 
 
 When I sate down to write this preface it was 
 my intention to have made it more compre- 
 
 M 
 
Xlii PREFACE. 
 
 hensive j but as all that I deem necessary is 
 expressed, J will here detain the reader no 
 longer : — what I have further to remark shall be 
 inserted, by way of interlude, at the close of 
 this Volume. 
 
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD 
 p^^^ OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 3 My heart leaps up 
 
 4 To a Butterfly 
 
 5 Foresight 
 
 7 Characteristics of a Child 
 
 8 Address to a Child 
 
 1 1 The Mother^s return 
 
 14 Lucy Gray 
 
 la Alice Fell 
 
 22 We are Seven 
 
 26 Anecdote for Fathers 
 
 30 Rural Architecture 
 
 32 The Pet Lamb 
 
 37 The Idle Shepherd Boys 
 
 42 To H. C. 
 
 44 Influence of Natural objects 
 
 48 The Blind Highland Boy 
 
 JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 63 Extract from a Poem on leaving School 
 
 64 — from An Evening Walk 
 
 70 Descriptive Sketches 
 
 85 Female Vagrant 
 
 Com- 
 posed 
 
 Pub- 
 
 lished 
 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 
 ij'j> 
 
 160/ 
 1798 
 1798 
 3 300 
 
 iSOO 
 
 1 607 
 1810 
 
 1786 
 
 1/^3 
 
 1/93 
 
 i793 
 
 1798 
 
xliv 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS FOUNDED ON THE 
 AFFECTIONS. 
 
 Page 
 
 95 
 
 115 
 
 116 
 
 n; 
 
 12] 
 
 125 
 128 
 132 
 134 
 137 
 141 
 147 
 148 
 160 
 161 
 163 
 165 
 169 
 175 
 
 179 
 203 
 
 225 
 
 The Brothers 
 
 Tiie Sparrow's Ncbt 
 
 To a Butterfly 
 
 Farewell thou little Nook 
 
 Written in my Pocket Copy of the Cai^tle 
 
 of Indolence 
 Ellen Irwin 
 Strange fits of passion 
 I met Louisa 
 'Tis said that some 
 The Complaint of an Indian 
 The last of the Flock 
 A Complaint 
 Ruth 
 
 The Cottager to her Infant 
 The Sailor's Mother 
 The Childless Father 
 The Affliction of ^ — — 
 Once in a lonely Hamlet 
 Her eyes are wild 
 The Idiot Boy 
 Michael, a Pastoral Poem 
 Laodamia 
 
 Com- 
 posed 
 
 Pub- 
 lished 
 
 1800 
 
 I8O7 
 1 807 
 
 1802 
 
 POEMS OF THE FANCY. 
 
 235 To the Daisy 
 
 240 A wliirl-blast 
 
 2't2 With how sad steps 
 
 243 The Green Linnet 
 
 245 To the small Celandine 
 
 248 To the sfuiie Flower 
 
 251 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 
 
 255 The Oak and the Broom 
 
 261 TJic Redbreast and the Buiterflv 
 
 1802 
 
 1800 
 1800 
 
 1807 
 1800 
 
 179s 
 1798 
 
 1807 
 1800 
 
 1800 
 1800 
 I8O7 
 I8O7 
 1798 
 1798 
 ISOO 
 
 1807 
 
 1800 
 I8O7 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 1800 
 1800 
 I8O7 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xlv 
 
 Page 
 
 263 
 266 
 268 
 270 
 272 
 273 
 275 
 
 279 
 281 
 
 287 
 
 290 
 
 To the Daisy 
 
 To the same Flower 
 
 To a Sky-lark 
 
 To a Sexton 
 
 Who fancied what a pretty sight 
 
 Song for the Wandering Jew 
 
 The seven Sisters 
 
 By their floating Mill 
 
 The Kitten and falling Leaves 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 Address to my Infant Daughter 
 
 posed 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
 297 There was a Boy 
 
 299 To the Cuckoo 
 
 301 A Night Piece 
 
 303 Yew Trees 
 
 305 View from the Top of Black Comb 
 
 307 Nutting 
 
 310 She was a Phantom 
 
 312 O Nightingale 
 
 313 Three Years she grew 
 
 315 A slumber 
 
 316 The Horn of Egremont Castle 
 322 Goody Blake and Harry Gill 
 328 I wandered lonely 
 
 330 Reverie of Poor Susan 
 
 33 1 Power of Music 
 334 Stepping Westward 
 33(3 Glen Almain 
 
 1804 
 
 1803 
 
 1803 
 
 Piib- 
 lisheii 
 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 
 1807 
 1800 
 
 1807 
 1800 
 I8O7 
 1807 
 1807 
 1800 
 
 1800 
 1807 
 
 1800 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 1800 
 1800 
 1307 
 1798 
 ISO7 
 1600 
 
 1807 
 1807 
 
 I 807 
 
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. 
 
 Page 
 
 POEMS OF THE IMAGINATION 
 CONTINUED, 
 
 3 To a Highland Girl 
 
 7 The Solitary Reaper 
 
 9 The Cock is crowing 
 
 11 Gipsies 
 
 13 Beggars 
 
 l6 Yarrow Unvisited 
 20 Yarrow Visited 
 
 24 Star Gazers 
 
 27 Resolution and Independence 
 
 35 The Thorn 
 
 47 Hart-leap well 
 
 58 Song at the Feast of Brougham 
 
 67 Yes ! full surely 
 
 6Q French Revolution 
 
 72 It is no Spirit 
 
 73 Tintern Abbey 
 
 POEMS PROCEEDING FROM SEN- 
 TIMENT AND REFLECTION. 
 
 81 Lines left upon a Seat, &c. 
 
 87 Character of the Happy Warrior 
 
 91 Rob Roy's Grave 
 
 98 A Poet's Epitaph 
 102 Expostulation and Reply 
 104 The Tables Turned 
 106 To the Sons of Burns 
 
 Com- 
 posed 
 
 1803 
 1803 
 
 1803 
 1814 
 
 1795 
 1803 
 
 Pub- 
 lished 
 
 1807 
 1607 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 I8O7 
 
 1807' 
 1807 
 1798 
 1800 
 
 1S07 
 1807 
 
 1810 
 1607 
 
 1798 
 
 1803 
 
 1798 
 I8O7 
 I807 
 IbOO 
 1798 
 
 1798 
 I8O7 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 xlvri 
 
 Page 
 
 108 To the Spade of a Friend 
 110 Written in Germany 
 113 Lines written at a small distance from my 
 House, &c. 
 
 1 16 To a Young Lady who had been reproached 
 
 for taking long walks, &c. 
 
 117 Lines written in early spring 
 
 1 19 Simon Lee ' 
 
 124 Andrew Jones 
 
 126 Lines written on a Tablet in a School 
 
 128 The two April mornings 
 
 132 The Fountain 
 
 136 Lines written in a Boat 
 
 137 Remembrance of Collins 
 139 I am not one of those, &c. 
 
 142 Incident characteristic of a favourite 
 
 Dog 
 14 1 Tribute to the memory of the same Dog 
 146 The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of 
 
 Bolton Abbey 
 150 Fidelity 
 154 Ode to Duty 
 
 Com- 
 )Osed 
 
 1798 
 
 Pub- 
 lished 
 
 I8O7 
 1800 
 
 1798 
 
 I8O7 
 1798 
 1798 
 1800 
 1800 
 1800 
 ISOO 
 1798 
 1798 
 I8O7 
 
 I8O7 
 I8O7 
 
 1808 
 
 I8O7 
 I8O7 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 159 Prefatory Sonnet 
 
 160 Upon the sight of a beautiful Picture 
 
 161 The fairest, brightest 
 
 162 Weak is the will of Man 
 
 163 Hail Twilight 
 
 164 The Shepherd looking eastward 
 
 165 How sweet it is, when 
 
 166 Where lies the Land 
 
 167 Even as a dragon's eye 
 
 168 Mark the concentred 
 
 169 Composed after a journey across the 
 
 Hamilton Hills 
 
 170 These words 
 
 171 Degenerate Douglas 
 
 1807 
 
 
 1807 
 I807 
 
 1802 
 
 I8O7 
 1 8O7 
 I8O7 
 
xlviii 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 172 To the Poet Dyer 
 
 173 To Sleep 
 
 174 To Sleep 
 
 175 To Sleep 
 
 176 With Ships 
 
 177 To the River Duddon 
 
 178 From the Italian of M. Angelo 
 
 179 From the same 
 
 180 From the same 
 
 181 To the Lady 
 
 182 The World is too much with 
 
 183 Written in very early Youth 
 
 184 Composed on Westminster bridge 
 
 185 Pelion and Ossa 
 
 186 Brook whose 
 
 187 Admonition 
 
 188 Beloved Vale 
 
 189 Methought I saw 
 191 Surprized by joy 
 
 191 It is a beauteous 
 
 192 Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of 
 
 a Friend 
 
 193 On approaching Home 
 J94 To 
 
 195 To Raisley Calvert 
 
 jCom.jPub- 
 
 jposedjlished 
 
 I8O7 
 
 1 807 
 1807 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 
 I8O7 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 
 I8O7 
 
 1807 
 
 I8O7 
 
 1803 
 
 ISO7 
 
 SONNETS DEDICATED TO 
 LI BE RTF. 
 
 FIRST PART, 
 
 Published in I8O7. 
 
 199 Composed by the Seashore near Calais 
 
 200 Calais 
 
 201 To a Friend 
 
 202 I grieved for Buonaparte 
 
 203 Festivals have I seen 
 
 204 On the extinction of the Venetian Republic 
 
 205 The King of Sweden 
 
CONTENTS. xlix 
 
 Page 
 
 206 To Toussaint L'Ouverture 
 
 207 We had a Fellow-passenger 
 
 208 Composed in the Valley near Dover 
 
 209 Inland, within a hollow Vale 
 
 210 Thought of a Briton, &c. 
 
 211 Written in London 
 
 212 Milton! . 
 
 213 Great Men have been 
 
 214 It is not to be thought of 
 
 215 When I have borne 
 
 216 One might believe 
 
 217 There is a bondage 
 
 218 These times 
 
 219 England ! the time is come 
 
 220 When looking 
 
 221 To the Men of Kent 
 
 222 Six thousand Veterans 
 
 223 Anticipation 
 
 224 Another year ! 
 
 SOiVNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY. 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 Froyyi the Year I8O7 to 1813. 
 
 227 On a celebrated Event in Ancient History ^ 
 
 228 On the same Event 
 
 229 To Thomas Clarkson 
 
 230 A Prophecy 
 
 231 Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a 
 
 Tract occasioned by the Convention of Cintra 
 
 232 On the same occasion 
 
 233 HofFer 
 
 234 Advance — come forth ! 
 
 235 Feelings of the Tyrolese 
 
 236 Alas! what boots 
 
 237 And is it among rude ^ 
 
 238 O'er the wide earth 
 
 VOL. I. d 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 239 On the final submission of the Tyrolese 
 
 240 Hail Zaragoza ! 
 
 241 Sa)'^ what is Honour ? 
 
 242 The martial courage 
 
 243 Brave Schill ! 
 
 244 Call not the royal Swede 
 
 245 Look now on that Adventurer 
 
 246 Is there a Power 
 
 247 Ah where is Palafox 1 
 
 248 In due observance 
 
 249 Feelings of a Noble Biscayan 
 
 250 The Oak of Guernica 
 
 25 1 Indignation of a high-minded Spaniard 
 
 252 Avaunt all specious 
 
 253 O'er-weening Statesmen 
 
 254 The French and Spanish Guerillas 
 
 255 Spanish Guerillas 
 
 256 The power of Armies 
 
 257 Conclusion 
 
 258 Added 
 
 POEMS ON THE NAMING OF 
 
 PLACES. 
 
 261 It was an April morning 
 264 To Joanna 
 
 268 There is an Eminence 
 
 269 A narrow girdle 
 273 To M. H. 
 
 275 When from the attractions 
 
 Com- 
 posed 
 
 Pub- 
 lished 
 
 1811 
 1813 
 
 ISOO 
 180O 
 1800 
 1800 
 1800 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS. 
 
 283 Lines written upon a stone, &c. 
 285 Upon a stone on the side of Black Comb 
 287 In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of 
 Sir George Beaumont, Bart. 
 
 289 In a Garden of the same 
 
 290 Upon an Urn in the same Grounds 
 
 1802 
 
 1800 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 li 
 
 'age 
 
 291 For a Seat in the groves of Coleorton 
 
 292 Written with a pencil upon the wall of the 
 
 house on the Island at Grasmere 
 
 Com- 
 posed 
 
 Pub- 
 lished 
 
 1600 
 
 POEMS REFERRING TO THE PERIOD 
 
 OF OLD AGE, 
 
 297 
 316 
 301 
 313 
 314 
 317 
 321 
 322 
 
 The old Cumberland Beggar 
 
 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 
 
 The small Celandine 
 
 Animal Tranquillity 
 
 The two Thieves 
 
 The Matron of Jedborough 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Inscription 
 
 EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS. 
 
 327 1st, Epitaph translated from Chiabrera 
 
 328 2d, V ^ 
 
 329 3d, 
 
 331 4th, 
 
 332 5th, 
 
 334 6th, 
 
 335 Lines composed at Grasmere 
 
 336 Written on a blank leaf in a Copy of the 
 
 Excursion 
 
 337 Elegiac Stanzas 
 341 To the Daisy 
 
 1798,1800 
 
 I8O7 
 1798 1798 
 
 1800 
 1 803 1 807 
 
 1807 
 ISO7 
 
 ISO7 
 
 1807 
 
 1805 
 
 347 ODE. — Intimations, See. 
 
 ,1S07 
 
ERRATA AND CORRECTIONS. 
 
 FIRST VOLUME. 
 Page 82. 12th line from top, for '^ Usurpign/' read ^^ Usurping.'^ 
 82. 16th line, for '' mites,'' read ^' times.'' 
 101. 8th, and 9th, for '' or," read " nor." 
 162. 2d Stanza; 4th line, for ^' His singing-bird," read '^ This 
 
 singing bird." 
 170. first line, for " though," read ^' thou." 
 
 ^ SECOND VOLUME. 
 
 Page 26. last line, for ^' slacky," read *^ slackly." 
 
 173. 4th line from bottom, for ^^ And pleas'd,'' read '' Am pleased.'^ 
 
 231. ist line, for " that," read '' which." 
 
 250. The title, for " of the," read '' to the." 
 
 250. 5th line from hot. for ^' would extend," read " should extend.'^ 
 
 308. 2nd Stanza, for, '^ of his ill gotten," read '' with this ill gotten." 
 
 319. 8th line from bot. for " the person," read '' the persons.'^ 
 
POEMS 
 
 REFERRING TO THE TERIOD OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
I. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A Rainbow in the sky: 
 So was it when my life began; 
 So is it now I am a Man; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is Father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 B 2 
 
II. 
 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Stay near me — do not take thy flight! 
 
 A little longer stay in sight! 
 
 Much converse do I find in Thee, 
 
 Historian of my Infancy! 
 
 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! 
 
 Dead times revive in thee : 
 
 Thou bring'st; gay Creature as thou art! 
 
 A solemn image to my heart, 
 
 My Father's Family! 
 
 Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
 The time, when in our childish plays. 
 My Sister Enimeline and I 
 Together chased the Butterfly! 
 A very hunter did I rush 
 Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 
 I followed on from brake to bush; 
 But She, God love her ! feared to brush 
 The dust from off its wings* 
 
III. 
 
 FORESIGHT, 
 
 Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion. 
 
 That is work of waste and ruin — 
 Do as Charles and I are doing ! 
 Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, 
 We must spare them — here are many: 
 Look at it — the Flower is small, 
 Small and low, though fair as any: 
 Do not touch it! summers two 
 I am older, Anne, than you. 
 
 Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne! 
 Pull as many as you can. 
 
 — Here are Daisies, take your fill ; 
 Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower : 
 Of the lofty Daffodil 
 Make your bed, and make your bower ; 
 Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ; 
 Only spare the Strawberry-blossom ! 
 
6 
 
 Primroses, the Spring may love them- 
 Summer knows but little of them : 
 Violets, a barren kind. 
 Withered on the ground must lie; 
 Daisies leave no fruit behind 
 When the pretty flowerets die; 
 Pluck them, and another year 
 As many will be blowing here. 
 
 God has given a kindlier power 
 To the favoured Strawberry-flower. 
 When the months of spring are fled 
 Hither let us bend our walk; 
 Lurking berries, ripe and red, 
 Then will hang on every stalk, 
 Each within its leafy bower ; 
 And for that promise spare the flower ! 
 
IV. 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 Of a Child three Years old. 
 
 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild; 
 
 And Innocence hath privilege in her 
 
 To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ; 
 
 And feats of cunning; and the pretty round 
 
 Of trespasses, affected to provoke 
 
 Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. 
 
 And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth, 
 
 Not less if unattended and alone 
 
 Than when both young and old sit gathered round 
 
 And take dehght in its activity, 
 
 Even so this happy Creature of herself 
 
 Is all sufficient : solitude to her 
 
 Is blithe society, who fills the air 
 
 With gladness and involuntary songs. 
 
 Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn^s 
 
 Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; 
 
 Unthought-of, unexpected as the stir 
 
 Of the soft breeze rufflhig the meadow flowers ; 
 
 Or from before it chasing wantonly 
 
 The maity-coloured images impressed 
 
 Upon the bosom of a placid lake. 
 
8 
 
 V, 
 
 ADDRESS TO A CHILD, 
 
 During a hoisterom Winter Evening. 
 By a female Friend of the Author. 
 
 What way does the Wind come? What way does he go? 
 
 He rides over the water, and over the snow, 
 
 Through wood, and through vale ; and o'er rocky height 
 
 Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight. 
 
 He tosses about in every bare tree. 
 
 As, if you look up, you plainly may see; 
 
 But how he will come, and whither he goes 
 
 There's never a Scholar in England knows^ 
 
 He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, 
 
 And rings a sharp larum ; — but if you should look 
 
 There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow 
 
 Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, 
 
 And softer than if it were covered with silk- 
 
9 
 
 Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock, 
 
 Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock ; 
 
 — Yet seek him, — and what shall you find in the place ( 
 
 Nothing but silence and empty space, 
 
 Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 
 
 That he^s left for a bed for beggars or thieves ! 
 
 As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me 
 You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see 
 That he has been there, and made a great rout, 
 And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; 
 Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig 
 That looked up at the sky so proud and big 
 All last summer, as well you know. 
 Studded with apples, a beautiful show! 
 
 Hark ! over the roof he makes a pause, 
 
 And growls as if he would fix his claws 
 
 Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 
 
 Drive them down, like men in a battle : 
 
 - — But let him range round ; he does us no harm 
 
 We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; 
 
 Untouch'd by his breath see the candle shines bright, 
 
 And burns with a clear and steady light j 
 
10 
 
 Books have we to read^ — hush ! that half-stifled knell, 
 Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. 
 
 — Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are there 
 He may work his own will, and what shall we care ? 
 He may knock at the door, — we'll not let him in, 
 May drive at the w^indows, — we'll laugh at his din ; 
 Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; 
 Here's a cozie warm House for Edward and me. 
 
11 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RETURN, 
 
 BY THE SAME, 
 
 A MONTH, sweet Little-ones^ is passed 
 Since your dear Mother went away, — 
 And she to-morrow will return ; 
 To-monow is the happy day, 
 
 blessed tidings ! thought of joy ! 
 The eldest heard with steady glee; 
 Silent he stood ; then laughed amain, — 
 And shouted, ^^ Mother come to me !'' 
 
 Louder and louder did he shout 
 With witless hope to bring her near ; 
 '^ Nay, patience ! patience, little Boy ! 
 Your tender Mother cannot hear*^^ 
 
 1 told of hills, and far-off towns, 
 
 And long, long vales to travel through ;— 
 He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
 But he submits j what can he do ? 
 
12 
 
 No strife disturbs his Sister's breast j 
 She wars not with the mystery 
 Of time and distance, night and day, 
 The bonds of our humanity. 
 
 Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
 Of kitten, bird, or summer fly ; 
 She dances, runs without an aim, 
 She chatters in her ecstasy. 
 
 Her Brother now takes up the note, 
 And echoes back his Sister's glee; 
 They hug the Infant in my arms. 
 As if to force his sympathy. 
 
 Then, settling into fond discourse, 
 We rested in the garden bower ; 
 While sweetly shone the evening sun 
 In his departing hom\ 
 
 We told o'er all that we had done, — - 
 Our rambles by the swift brook's side 
 Far as the willow-skirted pool 
 Where two fair swans together glide. 
 
13 
 
 We talked of change, of winter gone, 
 Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, 
 Of birds that build their nests and sing, 
 And '' all since Mother w^ent away !'^ 
 
 To her these tales they will repeat. 
 To her our new-born tribes will shew, 
 The goslings green, the ass's colt. 
 The lambs that in the meadow go* 
 
 — But, see, the evening Star comes forth ! 
 To bed the Children must depart ; 
 A moment's heaviness they feel, 
 A sadness at the heart : 
 
 ^Tis gone — and in a merry fit 
 
 They run up stairs in gamesome race; 
 
 I too, infected by their mood, 
 
 I could have joined the wanton chase. 
 
 Five minutes past — and Oh the change ! 
 Asleep upon their beds they lie; 
 Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 
 And closed the sparkling eye. 
 
 •\ 
 
14 
 
 VII. 
 LUCY GRAY, 
 
 Or Solitude. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when I crossed the Wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary Child. 
 
 No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide Moor, 
 — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the Fawn at play, 
 
 The Hare upon the Green ; 
 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 ^^ To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the Town must go ; 
 And take a lantern, Child, to lioht 
 Your mother through the snow/' 
 
15 
 
 " That, Father! will I gladly do; 
 ^Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The Minster-clock has just struck two. 
 And yonder is the Moon/^ 
 
 At this the Father raised his hook 
 And snapped a faggot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe: 
 With many a wanton sln^ke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb; 
 But never reached the Town. 
 
 The wretched Parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide; 
 But there was neither sovind nor sight 
 To serve them for a gUide. 
 
16 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlooked the Moor; 
 And thence they saw the Bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 And, turning homeward, now they cried 
 ^^ In Heaven we all shall meet!'^ 
 — When in the snow the Mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downward from the steep hilTs edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small; 
 And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
 And by the long stone-wall: 
 
 And then an open field they crossed: 
 The marks were still the same; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
 And to the Bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 The footmarks, one by one. 
 Into the middle of the plank; 
 And further there were none! 
 
17 
 
 —Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living Child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome Wild, 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
18 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 Or Poverty. 
 
 The Post-boy drove with fierce career, 
 
 For threatening clouds the moon had drowned ; 
 
 When suddenly I seemed to hear 
 
 A moan, a lamentable sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways 
 I heard the sound, — and more and more : 
 It seemed to follow with the Chaise, 
 And still I heard it as before. 
 
 At length I to the Boy called out ; 
 He stopped his horses at the word ; 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
 Nor aught else like it could be heard. 
 
The Boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain ; 
 And soon I heard upon the blast 
 The voice^ and bade him halt again. 
 
 Said I^ alighting on the ground, 
 ^' What can it be, this piteous moan?'^ 
 And there a little Girl I found, 
 Sitting behind the Chaise, alone. 
 
 ^^ My Cloak !'^ the word was last and firsts 
 And loud and bitterly she wept, 
 As if her very heart would burst ; 
 And down from off her seat she leapt* 
 
 '' What ails you, Child ?'^ she sobb'd, " Look here!^' 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 
 A weather-beaten Rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scare-crow dangled. 
 
 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke ; 
 Her help she lent, and with good heed 
 Together we released the Cloak ; 
 A wretched, wretched rag indeed ! 
 
 c2 
 
20 
 
 ^^ And whither are you going, Child, 
 To night along these lonesome ways ?'' 
 '^ To Durham'' answered she half wild — 
 ^^ Then come with me into the chaise/' 
 
 She sate like one past all relief; 
 Sob after sob she forth did send 
 In wretchedness, as if her grief 
 Could never, never, have an end. 
 
 ^' My Child, in Durham do you dwell ?'^ 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 And said, '^ My name is Alice Fell ; 
 I'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 ?> 
 '»' 
 
 And I to Durham, Sir, belong. 
 And then, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered Cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on; our journey's end 
 Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
 As if she'd lost her only friend 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
i21 
 
 Up to the Tavern-door we post ; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 And I gave money to the Host, 
 To buy a new Cloak for the old. 
 
 ^^ And let it be of duffil grey, 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell !^^ 
 Proud Creature was she the next day;, 
 The little Orphan, Alice Fell! 
 
22 
 
 IX 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 -—A SIMPLE child 
 
 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 clustered 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* 
 
23 
 
 ^' 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 ye 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/* 
 
24 
 
 '^ 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 sun-set, 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. 
 
25 
 
 So in the church-yard she was laid; 
 And all the summer dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and !• 
 
 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 !'^ 
 
26 
 
 h2v. 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 Showing how the Practice of Lying may le taught. 
 
 I HAVE a Boy of five years old ; 
 His face is fair and fresh to see; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mouldy 
 And dearly he loves me. 
 
 One morn we strolled on our dry walk^ 
 Our quiet home 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^ 
 Our pleasant home, when Spring began, 
 A lono, long year before. 
 
27 
 
 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?^^ 
 
28 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me, 
 While still I held him by the ai m^ 
 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, 
 
 u 
 
 ^' 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 hung down his head, 
 He blushed with shame, nor made reply; 
 And five times to the Child I said, 
 *^ Why, Edward, tell me why ? 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sisht. 
 It caught his eye, he saw it plain — 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded Vane* 
 
29 
 
 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/' 
 
 O dearest, dearest Boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 
30 
 
 XL 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE. 
 
 There's George Fisher^ Charles Fleming, and Reginald 
 
 Shore, 
 Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not more 
 Than the height of a Counsellors bag; 
 To the top of Great How did it please them to chmb; 
 And there they built up, without mortar or lime, 
 A Man on the peak of the crag. 
 
 They built him of stones gathered up as they lay • 
 They built him and christened him all in one day, 
 An Urchin both vigorous and hale; 
 And so without scruple they called him Ralph Joneso 
 Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones; 
 The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. 
 
31 
 
 Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, 
 And, in anger or merriment, out of the North 
 Coming on with a terrible pother, 
 From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. 
 And what did these School-boys ? — The very next day 
 They went and they built up another. 
 
 Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards 
 the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of 
 Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside. 
 

 XII. 
 
 THE PET-LJMB, 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; 
 
 I heard a voice; it said, ^' Drink, pretty Creature, drink!" 
 
 And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied 
 
 A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side. 
 
 No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone, 
 And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone; 
 With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, 
 While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal. 
 
 The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took 
 Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with plea- 
 
 sure shook. 
 ^^ Drink, pretty Creature, drink,'' she said in such a tone 
 That I alniost received her heart into my own. 
 
33 
 
 ^Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite^ a Child of beauty 
 rare ! 
 
 I watched them with delight, they w ere a lovely pair. 
 Now with her empty Can the Maiden turned away; 
 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay. 
 
 Towards the Lamb she looked ; and from that shady place 
 I unobserved could see the workings of her face: 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, 
 Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might sing 
 
 ^'What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at 
 
 thy cord? 
 Is it not well with thee ? Well both for bed and board ? 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; 
 Rest, little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee? 
 
 '^ What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is wanting to thy 
 
 heart? 
 Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art : 
 
 This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no 
 
 peers; 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears ! 
 
 VOL. !• D 
 
34 
 
 '^ If the Sun be shiuing hot; do but stretch thy woollen 
 
 chain, 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; 
 For rain and mountain storms ! the like thou need'st not 
 
 fear — 
 The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here. 
 
 " Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day 
 When my Father found thee first in places far away; 
 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by 
 
 none ; 
 And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. 
 
 ^' He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home : 
 A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam? 
 A faithful Nurse thou hast ; the Dam that did thee yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been. 
 
 ^' Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in 
 
 this Can 
 Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran ; 
 And twice in the day when the ground is wet wdth dew 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, Warm milk it is and newo 
 
35 
 
 ^^ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are 
 
 now, 
 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough 5 
 My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. 
 
 ^^ It will not, will not rest ! — poor Creature, can it be 
 That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in 
 
 thee ? 
 Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, 
 And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor 
 
 hear* 
 
 " Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! 
 Fve heard of fearful winds and darkness that coms 
 
 there ; 
 The little Brooks that seem all pastime and all play. 
 When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey. 
 
 ^^ Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; 
 Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by^ 
 Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? 
 Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee again T 
 
 B 2 
 
S6 
 
 — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet^ 
 This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
 And it seemed^ as I retraced the ballad line by line, 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. 
 
 Again^ and once again did I repeat the song; 
 
 ^' Nay/' said I, ^^ more than half to the Damsel must 
 
 belong, 
 For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such 
 
 a tone, 
 That I almost received her heart into my own/^ 
 
31 
 
 XIII 
 
 THE 
 
 IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE*. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 I. 
 
 The valley rings with mirth and joy; 
 
 Among the hills the Echoes play 
 
 A never, never ending song, 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 The Magpie chatters with delight; 
 
 The mountain Raven's youngling Brood 
 
 Have left the Mother and the Nest; 
 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 
 In search of their own food ; 
 
 Or through the glittering Vapors dart 
 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 * G%//in the dialect of Cumberland and Westaioreland is a short, 
 ^nd, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running 
 through it. Force is the word universally employed in theses dialects 
 for Waterfall, 
 
38 
 
 11. 
 
 Beneath a rock^ upon the grass^ 
 Two Boys are sitting in the sun ; 
 It seems they have no work to do 
 Or that their work is done. 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 The fragments of a Christmas Hymn ; 
 Or with that plant which in our dale 
 We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail, 
 Their rusty Hats they trim : 
 And thus, as happy as the Day, 
 Those Shepherds wear the time away, 
 
 III. 
 
 Along the river^s stony marge 
 
 The Sand-lark chaunts a joyous sono*: 
 
 The Thrush is busy in the wood^ 
 
 And carols loud and strono*. 
 
 A thousand Lambs are on the rocks 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky 
 
 Keep jubilee; and more than all. 
 
 Those Boys with their green Coronal ; 
 
 They never hear the cry, 
 
 Tliat plaintive cry! which up the hill 
 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 
 
39 
 
 IV. 
 
 Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
 '' Down to the stump of yon old yew 
 We'll for our Whistles run a race/^ 
 
 Away the Shepherds flew. 
 
 They leapt — they ran — and when they came 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
 Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
 *^ Stop!'' to his comrade Walter cries — 
 James stopped with no good will : 
 Said Walter then, ^' Your task is here, 
 'Twill keep you working half a year. 
 
 V. 
 
 ^^ Now cross where I shall cross — come on, 
 
 And follow me where I shall lead" — 
 
 The other took him at his word, 
 
 But did not like the deed. 
 
 It was a spot, which you may see 
 
 If ever you to Langdale go : 
 
 Into a chasm a mighty Block 
 
 Hath fallen, and made a Bridge of rock: 
 
 The gulph is deep below; 
 
 And in a bason black and small 
 
 Receives a lofty WaterfalL 
 
40 
 
 VL 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft 
 
 The Challenger began his march; 
 
 And now, all eyes and feet^ hath gained 
 
 The middle of the arch. 
 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan — 
 
 Again! — his heart within him dies — 
 
 His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 
 
 He totters, pale as any ghost, 
 
 And, looking down, he spies 
 
 A Lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 
 Within that black and frightful Rent, 
 
 VIL 
 
 The Lamb had slipped into the stream. 
 
 And safe without a bruise or w ound 
 
 The Cataract had borne him down 
 
 Into the gulph profound. 
 
 His Dam had seen him when he fell, 
 
 She saw him down the torrent borne; 
 
 And, while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a cry forlorn, 
 
 The Lamb, still swimming round and round, 
 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
41 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was^ 
 
 That sent this rueful cry; I ween, 
 
 The Boy recovered heart, and told 
 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 
 Both gladly now deferred their task ; 
 
 Nor was there wanting other aid — 
 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 
 Far better than the sages' books. 
 
 By chance had thither strayed ; 
 
 And there the helpless Lamb he found 
 
 By those huge rocks encompassed round. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He drew it gently from the pool, 
 
 And brought it forth into the light : 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his Charge, 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the Lamb they took, 
 
 Said they, '^ He's neither maimed nor scarred.'' 
 
 Then up the steep ascent they hied. 
 
 And placed him at his Mother's side ; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade thera better mind their trade. 
 
42 
 
 XIV. 
 
 To H. C, 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD. 
 
 O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable thought 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; 
 
 Thou faery Voyager ! that dost float 
 
 In such clear w ater, that thy Boat 
 
 May rather seem 
 
 To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; 
 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
 
 Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 
 
 blessed Vision ! happy Child ! 
 That art so exquisitely w^ld, 
 
 1 think of thee w itli many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot in future years. 
 
43 
 
 I tlioiight of times when Pain might be thy guest, 
 Lord of thy house and hospitality; 
 And Grief, uneasy Lover! never rest 
 But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
 Oh ! too industrious folly ! 
 Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! 
 Nature will either end thee quite; 
 Or, lengthening out thy season of delight. 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
 A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 
 What hast Thou to do with sorrow. 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow? 
 
 Thou art a Dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 
 Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks; 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
 A gem that glitters while it lives, 
 And no forewarning gives; 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 
 Slips in a moment out of life? r 
 
44 
 
 XV. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 
 
 hi calling Jorth and strengthening the Imagination in Boyhood and 
 
 early Touth y 
 
 From an unpuhlished Poem. 
 (This Extract is reprinted from ^^ The Friend/') 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe! 
 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought! 
 
 And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
 
 And everlasting motion! not in vain, 
 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man,"*— 
 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, 
 
 With life and nature ; purifying thus 
 
45 
 
 The elements of feeling and of thought;^ 
 And sanctifying by such discipUne 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart* 
 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November days 
 When vapours, rolling down the vallies, made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome ; among woods 
 At noon ; and mid the calm of summer nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling Lake, 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 'Twas mine among the fields both day and night, 
 And by the waters all the summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile, 
 
 The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 
 
 I heeded not the summons: — happy time 
 
 It was indeed for all of us ; for me 
 
 It was a time of rapture ! — Clear and loud 
 
 The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 
46 
 
 That cares not for its home. — All shod with steel 
 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in games 
 
 Confederate, imitative of the Chase 
 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn^ 
 
 The Pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 
 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew. 
 
 And not a voice was idle: with the din 
 
 Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; 
 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 
 Tinkled like iron ; while the distant hills 
 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars, 
 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 
 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 
 Into a silent bay, — or sportively 
 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, 
 
 To cut across the image of a Star 
 
 That gleamed upon the ice : and oftentimes, 
 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind, 
 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 
47 
 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels, 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and 1 stood and watched 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer seao 
 
48 
 
 XVL 
 
 THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 
 
 (A Tale told by the Fire-side.) 
 
 Now we are tired of boisterous joy, 
 We've romp'd enough^ my little Boy? 
 Jane hangs her head upon my breast, 
 And you shall bring your stool and rest^ 
 This corner is your own. 
 
 There ! take your seat, and let me see 
 That you can listen quietly; 
 And, as I promised, I will tell 
 That strange adventure which befel 
 A poor blind Highland Boy. 
 
 A Highland Boy ! — why call him so ? 
 Because, my Darlings, ye must know, 
 In land where many a mountain towers, 
 Far higher hills than these of ours ! 
 He from his birth had liv'd* 
 
49 
 
 He ne'er had seen one earthly sight ; 
 The sun, the day; the stars, the night; 
 Or tree, or butterfly, or flower. 
 Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, 
 Or woman^ man, or child. 
 
 And yet he neither drooped nor pined, 
 Nor had a melancholy mind ; 
 For God took pity on the Boy, 
 And was his friend; and gave him joy 
 Of w^hich we nothing know. 
 
 His Mother, too-^ no doubt, above 
 Her other Children him did love : 
 For, was she here, or was she there. 
 She thought of him with constant care, 
 And more than Mother's love. 
 
 And proud she was of hearty when clad 
 In crimson stockings, tartan plaid. 
 And bonnet with a feather gay. 
 To Kirk he on the sabbath day 
 
 Went hand in hand with her. 
 VOL. !• E 
 
50 
 
 A Dog, too^ bad he; not for need, 
 But one to play with and to feed ; 
 Which would have led him, if bereft 
 Of company or friends, and left 
 Without a better guide. 
 
 And then the bagpipes he could blow ; 
 And thus from house to house would go«, 
 And all were pleased to hear and see; 
 For none made sweeter melody 
 
 Than did the poor blind Boy. 
 
 Yet he had many a restless dream ; 
 Both when he heard the Eagles scream^ 
 And when he heard the torrents roar, 
 And heard the water beat the shore 
 
 Near which their Cottage stood. 
 
 Beside a lake their Cottage stood, 
 Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; 
 But one of mighty size, and strange ; 
 That, rough or smooth, is full of chancre. 
 And stirring in its bed. 
 
 o 
 
51 
 
 For to this Lake, by night and day, 
 The great Sea-water finds its way 
 Through long, long windings of the hills ; 
 And drinks up all the pretty rills 
 
 And rivers large and strong : 
 
 Then hurries back the road it came — 
 Returns, on errand still the same ; 
 This did it when the earth was new ; 
 And this for evermore will do, 
 
 As long as earth shall last. 
 
 And, with the coming of the Tide, 
 Come Boats and Ships, that sweetly ride. 
 Between the woods and lofty rocks ; 
 And to the Shepherds with their flocks 
 Bring tales of distant Lands. 
 
 And of those tales, whate'er they were, 
 The blind Boy always had his share ; 
 Whether of mighty Towns, or Vales 
 With warmer suns and softer gales, 
 Or wonders of the Deep. 
 
 E 2 
 
52 
 
 Yet more it pleased him^ more it stirred, 
 When from the water-side he heard 
 The shouting, and the jolly cheers, 
 The bustle of the mariners 
 
 In stillness or in storm. 
 
 But what do his desires avail ? 
 For He must never handle sail ; 
 Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float 
 In Sailor's ship or Fisher^s boat 
 Upon the rocking waves* 
 
 His Mother often thought, and said, 
 What sin would be upon her head 
 If she should suffer this : ^' My Son, 
 Whatever you do, leave this undone ; 
 The danger is so great. 
 
 y> 
 
 Thus lived he by Loch Levin's side 
 Still sounding with the sounding tide, 
 And heard the billows leap and dance, 
 Without a shadow of mischance, 
 Till he was ten years old. 
 
53 
 
 When one day (and now mark me well, 
 Ye soon shall know how this befel) 
 He's in a vessel of his own, 
 On the swift water hurrying down 
 Towards the mighty Sea. 
 
 In such a vessel never more 
 May human Creature leave the shore : 
 If this or that way he should stir, 
 Woe to the poor blind Mariner ! 
 
 For death will be his doom* 
 
 But say what bears him ? — Ye have seen 
 The Indian's Bow, his arrows keen, 
 Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright ; 
 Gifts which, for wonder or delight. 
 
 Are brought in ships from far. 
 
 Such gifts had those sea-faring men 
 Spread round that Haven in the glen ; 
 Each hut, perchance, might have its own, 
 And to the Boy they all were known, 
 He knew and prized them alL 
 
54 
 
 And one, the rarest, was a Shell 
 Which he, poor Child, had studied well ; 
 The Shell of a green Turtle, thin 
 And hollow ; — you might sit therein, 
 It was so wide and deep. 
 
 'Twas even the largest of its kind. 
 Large, thin, and light as birch-tree rind ; 
 So light a Shell that it would swim, 
 And gaily lift its fearless brim 
 
 Above the tossing waves. 
 
 And this the little blind Boy knew : 
 And he a story strange, yet true. 
 Had heard, how in a Shell like this 
 An English Boy, O thought of bliss ! 
 
 Had stoutly launched from shore ; 
 
 Launched from the margin of a bay 
 Among the Indian Isles, where lay 
 His Father's ship, and had sailed far, 
 To join that gallant Ship of war. 
 In his delightful Shell 
 
55 
 
 Our Highland Boy oft visited 
 The house which held this prize; and; led 
 By choice or chance, did thither come 
 One day when no one was at home^ 
 And found the door unbarred. 
 
 While there he sate, alone and blind, 
 That Story flashed upon his mind ; — 
 A bold thought rouzed him, and he took 
 The Shell from out its secret nook. 
 And bore it in his arms. 
 
 And with the happy burthen hied, 
 And pushed it from Loch Levin's side, — 
 Stepped into it ; and, without dread, 
 Following the fancies in his head, 
 He paddled up and down. 
 
 A while he stood upon his feet ; 
 He felt the motion — took his seat ; 
 And dallied thus, till from the shore 
 The tide retreating more and more 
 
 Had sucked, and sucked him in. 
 
66 
 
 And there he is in face of Heaven. 
 How rapidly the Child is driven ! 
 The fourth part of a mile I ween 
 He thus had gone, ere he was see*^ 
 ±Sy any numan eye* 
 
 But when he was first seen, oh me 
 What shrieking and what misery ! 
 For many saw ; among the rest 
 His Mother, she who loved him best. 
 She saw her poor blind Boy. 
 
 But for the Child, the sightless Boy, 
 It is the triumph of his joy ! 
 The bravest Traveller in balloon, 
 Mounting as if to reach the moon. 
 Was never half so bless'd. 
 
 And let him, let him go his way. 
 Alone, and innocent, and gay ! 
 For, if good Angels love to wait 
 On the forlorn unfortunate, 
 
 This Child will take uo harm. 
 
57 
 
 But now the passionate lament, 
 Which from the crowd on shore was sent, 
 The cries which broke from old and young 
 In Gaelic, or the English tongue, 
 Are stifled — all is still. 
 
 And quickly with a silent crew 
 A Boat is ready to pursue ; 
 And from the shore their course they take, 
 And swiftly down the running Lake 
 They follow the blind Boy. 
 
 But soon they move with softer pace, 
 So have ye seen the fowler chase 
 On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast 
 A Youngling of the wild-duck^s nest 
 With deftly-lifted oar. 
 
 Or as the wily Sailors crept 
 To seize (while on the Deep it slept) 
 The hapless Creature which did dwell 
 EreMhile within the dancing Shell, 
 They steal upon their prey. 
 
58 
 
 With sound the least that can be made 
 They follow, more and more afraid. 
 More cautious as they draw more near; 
 But in his darkness he can hear, 
 And guesses their intent. 
 
 " Lei'gha — Lei-gha'^ — then did he cry 
 ^^ Lei'gha — JLei-gha!^ — most eagerly; 
 Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, 
 And what he meant was, ^^ Keep away. 
 And leave me to myself !'^ 
 
 Alas ! and when he felt their hands 
 
 You've often heard of magic Wands, 
 That with a motion overthrow 
 A palace of the proudest shew. 
 Or melt it into air. 
 
 So all his dreams, that inward light 
 With which his soul had shone so bright, 
 All vanished ; — 'twas a heartfelt cross 
 To him, a heavy, bitter loss. 
 As he had ever known. 
 
69 
 
 But hark ! a gratulating voice 
 With which the very hills rejoice : 
 ^Tis from the crowd^ who tremblingly 
 Had watchM the event, and now can see 
 That he is safe at last. 
 
 And then, when he was brought to land, 
 Full sure they were a happy band, 
 Which gathering round did on the banks 
 Of that great Water give God thanks, 
 And welcomed the poor Child. 
 
 And in the general joy of heart 
 The blind Boy's little Dog took part ; 
 He leapt about, and oft did kiss 
 His master's hands in sign of bliss. 
 With sound like lamentation. 
 
 But most of all, his Mother dear, 
 She who had fainted with her fear. 
 Rejoiced when waking she espies 
 The Child ; when she can trust her eyes, 
 And touches the blind Bov. 
 
60 
 
 She led him home, and wept amain, 
 When he was in the house again : 
 Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes; 
 She could not blame him, or chastise: 
 She was too happy fan 
 
 Thus, after he had fondly braved 
 The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved ; 
 And, though his fancies had been wnu, 
 Yet he was pleased, and reconciled 
 To live in peace on shore. 
 
 And in the lonely Highland Dell 
 Still do they keep the Turtle shell ; 
 And long the Story will repeat 
 Of the blind Boy^s adventurous feat, 
 And how he was preserved. * 
 
 • See note at the end of this Volume. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
L 
 EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM^ 
 Composed upon leaving School, 
 
 Dear native Regions, I foretell 
 From what I feel at this farewell, 
 That; wheresoever my steps shall tend, 
 And whensoever my course shall end, 
 If in that hour a single tie 
 Survive of local sympathy, 
 My soul will cast the backward view, 
 The longing look alone on you. 
 
 Thus, when the Sun, prepared for rest, 
 Hath gained the precincts of the West, 
 Though his departing radiance fail 
 To illuminate the hollow Vale, 
 A lingering light he fondly throws 
 On the dear Hills where first he rose. 
 
64 
 
 11. 
 EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM A POEM ENTITLED 
 
 AN EVENING WALKj 
 
 Published in 1793. 
 
 Brightening the cliffs between, where sombrous pine 
 
 And yew-trees o'er the silver rocks recline ; 
 
 I love to mark the quarry's moving trains, 
 
 Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains : 
 
 How busy the enormous hive within, 
 
 While Echo dallies with the various din ! 
 
 Some (hardly heard their chisel's clinking sound) 
 
 Toil, small as pigmies, in the gulf profound; 
 
 Some, dim between th' aereal cliffs descry^, 
 
 O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side ; 
 
 These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring^ 
 
 Glad from their airy baskets hang and sing. 
 
65 
 
 Now, while the solemn evening Shadows sail 
 On red slow-waving pinions down the vale, 
 How pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray, 
 Where winds the road along a secret bay ; 
 By rills that tumble down the woody steeps, 
 And run in transport to the dimpling deeps ; 
 Along the ^' wild meandering shore'' to view. 
 Obsequious Grace the winding swan pursue. 
 He swells his lifted chest, and backward flings 
 His bridling neck between his towering wings; 
 In all the majesty of ease divides. 
 And glorying looks around, the silent tides : 
 On as he floats, the silvered waters glow. 
 Proud of the varying arch and moveless form of snow 
 While tender Cares and mild domestic Loves 
 With furtive watch pursue her as she moves ; 
 The Female with a meeker charm succeeds. 
 And her brown Little-ones around her leads, 
 Nibbling the water-lilies as they pass, 
 Or playing wanton with the floating grass. 
 VOL. I. P 
 
66 
 
 She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride 
 Forgets, unweary'd watching every side : 
 She calls them near, and with affection sweet 
 Alternately relieves their weary feet ; 
 Alternately they momit her back, and rest, 
 Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest. 
 
 Now with religious awe the farewel light 
 
 Blends w ith the solemn colouring of the night ; 
 
 Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow. 
 
 And round the West's proud lodge theh^ shadows throw, 
 
 Like Una shining on her gloomy way. 
 
 The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray ; 
 
 Shedding, through paly loopholes mild and small. 
 
 Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall. 
 
 Beyond the mountain's giant reach that hides 
 
 In deep determined gloom his subject tides. 
 
 Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale 
 
 Tracking the fitful motions of the gale. 
 
 With restless interchange at once the brio^ht 
 
 Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. 
 
 No favoured eye was e'er allowed to oaze 
 
 On lovelier spectacle in faery days ; 
 
67 
 
 When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chace, 
 Brushing with lucid wands the water's face ; 
 While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps^ 
 Charmed the tall circle of th' enchanted steeps. 
 — The lights are vanished from the watry plains : 
 No wreck of all the pageantry remains. 
 Unheeded Night has overcome the vales : 
 On the dark earth the baffled vision fails ; 
 The latest lingerer of the forest train. 
 The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain ; 
 Last evening sight, the cottage smoke no more, 
 Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar ; 
 And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere. 
 Like a black wall, the mountain steeps appear. 
 — Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel 
 A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, 
 And ever, as we fondly muse, we find 
 The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. 
 Stay ! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay ! 
 Ah no ! as fades the vale, they fade away. 
 Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains ; 
 Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. 
 
 The bird, who ceased, with fading hght, to thread 
 Silent the hedge or steaming rivulet's bed, 
 
 F 2 / 
 
68 
 
 From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon 
 Salute with boding note the rising moon, 
 Frosting with hoary light the pearly ground, 
 And pouring deeper blue to iEther's bound ; 
 And pleased her solemn pomp of clouds to fold 
 In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. 
 
 See, o'er the eastern hill, where Darkness broods 
 O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods ; 
 Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace. 
 She lifts in silence up her lovely face ; 
 Above the gloomy valley flings her light. 
 Far to the western slopes with hamlets white ; 
 And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, 
 To the green corn of summer autumn's hue. 
 
 Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn 
 Her dawn, far lovelier than the Moon's own morn ; 
 'Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer 
 The weary hills, impervious, blackening near ; 
 ' — Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while 
 On darling spots remote her tempting smile. 
 
 — Ev'n now she decks for me a distant scene, 
 (For dark and broad the gulph of time between) 
 Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, 
 (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; 
 
f)9 
 
 How fair it's lawns and sheltering woods appear ! 
 How sweet it's streamlet murmurs in mine ear !) 
 Where we, my friend, to happy days shall rise, 
 ^Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs 
 (For sighs w^ill ever trouble human breath) 
 Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of Death. 
 
70 
 
 III. 
 EXTRACTS 
 
 FROM 
 
 DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRUN 
 
 TOUR IN THE ALPS. 
 
 (Published in 1793.) 
 
 PLEASURES OF THE PEDESTRIAN. 
 
 No sad vacuities his heart annoy ; — 
 
 Blows not a Zephyr but it whispers joy ; 
 
 For him lost flowers their idle sweets exhale ; 
 
 He tastes the meanest note that swells the gale ; 
 
 For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn, 
 
 And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn! 
 
 Dear is the forest frowning o^er his head, 
 
 And dear the green-sward to his velvet tread ; 
 
 Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye? 
 
 Upward he looks — ^^ and calls it luxury;" 
 
 Kind Nature's charities his steps attend, 
 
 In every babbling brook he finds a friend, 
 
 While chast'ning thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed 
 
 By Wisdom, moralize his pensive road. 
 
 Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower, 
 
 To his spare meal he calls the passing poor ; 
 
71 
 
 He views the Sun uplift his golden fire, 
 Or sink, with heart alive like ^'Memnon's lyre; 
 Blesses the Moon that comes with kindest ray 
 To light him shaken by his viewless way. 
 With bashful fear no cottage children steal 
 From him, a brother at the cottage meal, 
 His humble looks no shy restraint impart, 
 Around him plays at will the virgin heart. 
 While unsuspended wheels the village dance, 
 The maidens eye him with inquiring glance. 
 Much wondering what sad stroke of crazing Care 
 Or desperate Love could lead a wanderer there, 
 
 I SIGH at hoary Chartreuse' doom. 
 Where now is fled that Power whose frown severe 
 Tamed ^' sober Reason'^ till she crouched in fear ? 
 That breathed a death-like peace these woods around ; 
 
 The cloister startles at the gleam of arms, 
 And Blasphemy the shuddering fane alarms ; 
 
 ^ The lyre of Memnon is reported to have emitted melancholy or 
 cheerful tones, as it was touched by the sun's evening or rooming 
 
 rays. 
 
72 
 
 Nod the cloud-piercing pines their troubled beads^ 
 Spires, rocks, and lawns, a browner night overspreads. 
 Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs, 
 And start the astonished shades at female eyes. 
 The thundering tube the aged angler hears,^ 
 And swells the groaning torrent with his tears. 
 JFrom Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay, 
 And slow the insulted eagle wheels away. 
 The cross with hideous laughter Demons mock, 
 By # angels planted on the aereal rock. 
 The '' parting Genius'' sighs with hollow breath 
 Along the mystic streams^ of ^ Life and Death. 
 Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds 
 Portentous, through her old woods' trackless bounds, 
 JVallombre, mid her falling fanes, deplores^ 
 For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers. 
 
 More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves 
 Of Como bosomed deep in chesnut groves. 
 No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps 
 Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps. 
 
 * Alluding to crosses seen on the tops of the spiry rocks of the 
 Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible. 
 t Nanies of Rivers at the Chartreuse. 
 X Name of one of the v^illics of the Chartreuse. 
 
 >^ 
 
73 
 
 To townS; w hose shades of no rude sound complain^ 
 
 To ringing team unknown and grating wain^ 
 
 To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound, 
 
 Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound^ 
 
 Or from the bending rocks obtrusive cling, 
 
 And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling : 
 
 Wild round the steeps the little pathway twines, 
 
 And Silence loves its purple roof of vines- 
 
 The viewless lingerer hence, at evening, sees 
 
 From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees ; 
 
 Or marks, mid opening clifls, fair dark-^yed maids 
 
 Tend the small harvest of their garden glades, 
 
 Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view 
 
 Stretch, o'er the pictured mirror, broad and blue. 
 
 Tracking the yellow sun from steep to steep, 
 
 As up the opposing hills, with tortoise foot, they creep 
 
 Here half a village shines, in gold arrayed. 
 
 Bright as the moon ; half hides itself in shade. 
 
 From the dark sylvan roofs the restless spire 
 
 Inconstant glancing, mounts like springing fire. 
 
 There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw^ 
 
 Rich golden verdure on the waves below. 
 
 Slow glides the sail along th' illumined shore, 
 
 And steals into the shade the lazy oar. 
 
74 
 
 Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs^ 
 And amorous music on the water dies. 
 
 How bless'd, delicious scene! the eye that greets 
 Thy open beauties^ or thy lone retreats ; 
 Th^ unwearied sweep of wood thy cliffs that scales; 
 The never-ending waters of thy vales ; 
 The cots, those dim religious groves embower, 
 Or, under rocks that from the water tower 
 Insinuated, sprinkling all the shore, 
 Each with his household boat beside the door, 
 Whose flaccid sails in forms fantastic droop. 
 Brightening the gloom where thick the forests stoop ; 
 
 Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky. 
 
 Thy towns, like swallows' nests that cleave on high; 
 That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descry'd 
 Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side. 
 Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods 
 Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods, 
 While Evening's solemn bird melodious weeps. 
 Heard, by star-spotted bays, beneath the steeps ; 
 
 Thy lake, mid smoking woods, that blue and grey 
 
 Gleams, streaked or dappled, hid from morning's ray 
 Slow travelling down the western hills, to fold 
 Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold ; 
 
75 
 
 From thickly-glittering spires the matin bell 
 Calling the woodman from his desert cell, 
 A summons to the sound of oars, that pass, 
 Spotting the steaming deeps, to early mass ; 
 Slow swells the service o'er the water born, 
 While fill each pause the ringing woods of morn. 
 
 Now, passing Urseren^s open vale serene, 
 
 Her quiet streams, and hills of downy green, 
 
 Plunge with the Russ embrowned by Terror's breath, 
 
 Where danger roofs the narrow walks of death ; 
 
 By floods, that, thundering from their dizzy height, 
 
 Swell more gigantic on the stedfast sight ; 
 
 Black drizzling crags, that beaten by the din, 
 
 Vibrate, as if a voice complained within; 
 
 Bare steeps, where Desolation stalks afraid, 
 
 Unstedfast, by a blasted yew upstayed ; 
 
 By ^ cells whose image, trembling as he prays. 
 
 Awe-struck, the kneeling peasant scarce surveys ; 
 
 * The Catholic religion prevails here : these cells are, as is well 
 known, very common in the Catholic countries, planted, like Ro* 
 man tombs, along the road side. 
 
?6 
 
 Loose hanging locks the Day's blessM eye that hide, 
 And ^ crosses reared to Death on every side, 
 Which with cold kiss Devotion planted near, 
 And bending watered wdth the human tear ; 
 That faded ^' silent'' from her upward eye, 
 Unmoved with each rude form of Danger nigh, 
 Fixed on the anchor left by him who saves 
 Alike in whelming snows and roaring waves. 
 
 On as we move a softer prospect opes, 
 Calm huts, and lawns between, and sylvan slopes. 
 While mists, suspended on the expiring gale. 
 Moveless o'er-hang the deep secluded vale, 
 The beams of evening, slipping soft between, 
 Light up of tranquil joy a sober scene. 
 Winding its dark-green wood and emerald glade, 
 The still vale lengthens underneath the shade ; 
 While in soft gloom the scattering bowers recede, 
 Green dewy lights adorn the freshened mead. 
 On the low^ f brown wood-huts delighted sleep 
 Along the brightened gloom reposing deep. 
 
 * Crosses commemorative of the deaths of travellers by the fall of 
 snow and other accidents, very common along this dreadful road. 
 
 t The houses in the more retired Swiss vallies are all built of 
 wood. 
 
77 
 
 While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull 
 
 And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull^ 
 
 In solemn shapes before the admiring eye 
 
 Dilated hang the misty pines on high^ 
 
 Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers^ 
 
 And antique castles seen through drizzling showers. 
 
 From such romantic dreams my soul aw^ake, 
 Lo ! Fear looks silent down on Uri^s lake ; 
 Where by the mipathwayed margin still and dread 
 Was never heard the plodding peasant's tread : 
 Tower like a wall the naked rocks, or reach 
 Far o'er the secret water dark with beach ; 
 More high, to where creation seems to end, 
 Shade above shade the desert pines ascend. 
 Yet, with his infants, man undaunted creeps 
 And hangs his small wood-hut upon the steeps. 
 Where'er, below, amid the savage scene 
 Peeps out a little speck of smiling green. 
 A garden-plot the mountain air perfumes, 
 Mid the dark pines a little orchard blooms ; 
 A zig-zag path from the domestic skiff, 
 Threading the painful crag, surmounts the cliff. 
 
78 
 
 — Before those hermit doors, that never know 
 
 The face of traveller passing to and fro^ 
 
 No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell 
 
 For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell ; 
 
 Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes, 
 
 Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes ; 
 
 The grassy seat beneath their casement shade 
 
 The pilgrim's wistful eye hath never stayed. 
 
 — ^There, did the iron Genius not disdain 
 
 The gentle Pow er that haunts the myrtle plain, 
 
 There might the love-sick Maiden sit, and chide 
 
 Th' insuperable rocks and severing tide, 
 
 There watch at eve her Lover's sun-gilt sail 
 
 Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale. 
 
 There list at midnight, till is heard no more, 
 
 Below, the echo of his parting oar, 
 
 There hang in fear, when growls the frozen stream, 
 
 To guide his dangerous tread^ the taper's gleam. 
 
 Mid stormy vapours ever driving by, 
 Where ospreys, cormorants, and herons cry ; 
 Where hardly given the hopeless waste to cheer, 
 Denied the bread of life the foodful ear, 
 
79 
 
 Dwindles the pear on autumn's latest spray^ 
 
 And apple sickens pale in summer's ray ; 
 
 Ev'n here Content has fixed her smiling reign 
 
 With Independence^ child of high Disdain. 
 
 Exulting mid the winter of the skies, 
 
 Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies, 
 
 And often grasps her sword, and often eyes : 
 
 Her crest a bough of Winter's bleakest pine, 
 
 Strange " weeds" and alpine plants her helm entwine. 
 
 And wildly-pausing oft she hangs aghast, 
 
 While thrills the " Spartan fife'^ between the blast. 
 
 #^t' 'it- -iif -it- 'it' •tf- •V- 
 
 ^ w tI* w w w -iv 
 
 I 
 
 ^is storm ; and, hid in mist from hour to hour, 
 All day the floods a deepening murmur pour; 
 The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight : 
 Dark is the region as with coming night ; 
 But what a sudden burst of overpowering light ! 
 Triumphant on the bosom of the storm. 
 Glances the fire-clad eagle's wheeling form ; 
 Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine 
 The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake rechnej 
 Wide o'er the Alps a hundred streams unfold, 
 At once to pillars turned that flame with gold ; 
 
80 
 
 Behind his sail the peasant strives to shun 
 The west that burns hke one dilated sun, 
 Where in a mighty crucible expire 
 The mountains, glowing hot, like coals of fire 
 
 •^ # ^- # # # % * 
 
 — And sure there is a secret Power that reigns 
 
 Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes, 
 
 Nought* but the herds that pasturing upward creepy 
 
 Hung dim-discovert from the dangerous steep, 
 
 Or summer hamlet, flat and bare, on high 
 
 Suspended, mid the quiet of the sky. 
 
 How still ! no irreligious sound or sight 
 
 Rouzes the soul from her severe delight. 
 
 An idle voice the sabbath region fills 
 
 Of Deep that calls to' Deep across the hills. 
 
 Broke only by the melancholy sound 
 
 Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round ; 
 
 Faint wail of eagle melting into blue 
 
 Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods steady sughf:^ 
 
 ^ This picture is from the middle region of the Alps. 
 
 f Sugh, a scotch word expressive of the sound of the wind through 
 the trees. 
 
81 
 
 The solitary heifer's deepened low ; 
 Or rumbling heard remote of falling snow ; 
 Save that, the stranger seen below, the boy 
 Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy. 
 
 When warm from myrtle bays and tranquil seas, 
 
 Comes on, to whisper hope, the vernal breeze, 
 
 When hums the mountain bee in May's glad ear, 
 
 And emerald isles to spot the heights appear, 
 
 When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill, 
 
 And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill. 
 
 When fragrant scents beneath th' enchanted tread 
 
 Spring up, his choicest wealth around him spread. 
 
 The pastoral Swiss begins the cliffs to scale, 
 
 To silence leaving the deserted vale, ..^ 
 
 Mounts, where the verdure leads, from stage to stage, 
 
 And pastures on, as in the Patriarch's age : 
 
 O'er lofty heights serene and still they go, 
 
 And hear the rattling thunder far below. 
 
 They cross the chasmy torrent's foam-lit bed. 
 
 Rocked on the dizzy larch's nariow tread ; 
 
 Or steal beneath loose mountains, half deterr'd, 
 
 That sigh and shudder to the lowing herd. 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
8^i 
 
 —I see hitn, up the midway cliff he creeps 
 To where a scanty knot of verdure peeps, 
 Thence down the steep a pile of grass he throw:?^ 
 The fodder of his herds in winter snows. 
 iFar different life to what tradition hoar 
 Transmits of days more blest in times of yore ; 
 Then Summer lengthened out his season bland^ 
 And with rock-honey flowed the happy land. 
 Continual fountains welling cheered the waste, 
 And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste= 
 Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled 
 / Usurpign where the fairest herbage smiled : 
 ' V Nor Hunger forced the herds from pastures bare 
 For scanty food the treacherous cliffs to dare. 
 Then the milk-thistle bade those herds demand 
 e Three mites a day the pail and welcome hand^ 
 But human vices have provoked the rod 
 Of angry Nature to avenge her God. 
 Thus does the father to his sons relate, 
 On the lone mountain top, their changed estate. 
 Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts 
 Joys only given to imcorrupted hearts. 
 When downward to his winter hut he goes. 
 Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows, 
 
83 
 
 That hut which from the hills his eyes employs 
 So oft, the central point of all his joys, 
 Where safely guarded by the woods behind 
 He hears the chiding of the baffled wind 5 
 Hears Winter, calling all his Terrors round, 
 Rush down the living rocks with whirlwind sound. 
 Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide 
 Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride ; 
 The bound of all his vanity to deck 
 With one bright bell a favourite heifer's neck : 
 Content, upon some simple annual feast, 
 (Remembered half the year, and hoped the rest, ) 
 If dairy produce, from his inner hoard. 
 Of thrice ten summers consecrate the board, 
 
 V 
 
 T^ * ^ * ^ ^ vT W 
 
 Gay lark of hope thy silent song resume I 
 Fair smiling lights the purpled hills illume ! 
 Soft gales and dews of life's delicious morn, 
 And thou, lost fragrance of the heart return ! 
 Soon flies the little joy to man allowed. 
 And grief before him travels like a cloud : 
 For come Diseases on, and Penury's rage, 
 Labour, and Care, and Pain, and dismal Age, 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath 
 
 Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death. 
 
 — Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine 
 
 Between interminable tracts of pine, 
 
 A Temple stands ; which holds an awful shrine, 
 
 By an uncertain light revealed, that falls 
 
 On the mute Image and the troubled walls : 
 
 Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear, 
 
 Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear ; 
 
 While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd, 
 
 Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud. 
 
 Oh ! give not me that eye of hard disdain 
 That views undimmed Ensiedlen's * wretched fane. 
 Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet^ 
 Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet ; 
 While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry. 
 Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 
 If the sad grave of human ignorance bear 
 One flower of hope — Oh, pass and leave it there. 
 
 * This shrine is resorted to, from a hope of relief, by multitudes, 
 from every corner^of the Catholic world, labouring under menial 
 or bodily afflictions. 
 
8 
 
 n 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE FEMALE VJGRANT. 
 
 Having described her otvn Situation tvith her Husband, 
 serving in America during the War^ she proceedsy 
 
 1 
 ^ ^ ^ 'JF •Jt ^ ^ ^ 
 
 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 imprest, 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main* 
 The very ocean has its hour of rest. 
 I too was calm, though heavily distrest ! 
 Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were ! 
 My heart was hushed within me, I was blest. 
 And looked, and looked along the silent air, 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 
 
86 
 
 Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps ! 
 And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke! 
 The unburied dead that lay in 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 ! 
 
 Some mighty gulf of separation past, 
 
 I seemed transported to another world : — 
 
 A thought resigned with pain, w^hen 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 for ever hurled. 
 
 For me — farthest from earthly port to roam 
 
 Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come 
 
 And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) 
 
 That I at last a resting-place had found ; 
 
 '' Here will I dwell,'' said I, '' my whole life long, 
 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round : 
 
 Here will I live :— of every friend disowned, 
 
87 
 
 And end my days upon 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 pmed, and wanted food. 
 
 By grief enfeebled was 1 turned adrift, 
 Helpless as sailor cast on desert 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 ; 
 
 Dismally 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 pass'd 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 link'd, did on my vitals fall. 
 
 And I had many interruptions short 
 
 Of hideous sense ; I sank, nor step could crawl 
 
 And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital- 
 
88 
 
 Recovery came with food : but still my brain 
 
 Was weak, nor of the pa^st 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, might make a dead man start. 
 
 These things just served to stir the torpid sense, 
 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 
 
 My memory and my strength returned ; 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 Travellers saw me weep, my tale mquired. 
 
 And gave me food, — and rest, more welcome, raor edesired. 
 
 They with their pannier'd Asses semblance made 
 Of Potters wandering on from door to door : 
 But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 
 And other joys my fancy to allure ; 
 
89 
 
 The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
 
 In barn uplighted, and Companions boon 
 
 Well met from far with revelry secure, 
 
 Among the forest glades, when jocund June ' 
 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. 
 
 But ill they suited me ; those journeys dark 
 
 O^er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ! 
 
 To charm the surly House-dog's faithful bark, 
 
 Or hang on tip-toe 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 ? 
 My 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, 
 111 was I then for toil or service fit : 
 
 With tears whose course no effort could confine, 
 
 By the road-side forgetful would I sit 
 
 Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. 
 
90 
 
 I led a wandering life among the fields ; 
 
 Contentedly, yet sometimes self- accused, 
 
 I lived upon what casual bounty yields, 
 
 Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 
 The ground I for my bed have often used : 
 
 But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth 
 
 Is, that I have my inner self abused, 
 
 Forgone the home delight of constant truth. 
 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. 
 
 Three years thus wandering, often have I viewed. 
 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. 
 
POEMS 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE AFFECTIONS, 
 
/ 
 
 I. 
 
 TRE BROTHERS^. 
 
 " 1 HESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live 
 
 A profitable life : some glance along, 
 
 Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 
 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 
 Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 
 
 Upon the forehead of a jutting crag 
 
 Sit perched, with book and pencil on their knee. 
 
 And look and scribble, scribble on and look. 
 
 Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 
 
 * This Poem was intended to conclude a series of pastorals, the 
 scene of which was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. I mention this to apologize for the abruptness 
 with which the poem begins. 
 
94 
 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 
 Why can he tarry yonder^ — In our church-yard 
 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 
 Tomb-stone nor name — only the turf we tread. 
 
 And a few natural graves/^ To Jane, his wife. 
 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 
 It was a July evening ; and he sate 
 
 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
 
 Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
 
 Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 
 
 His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
 
 While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, 
 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest Child, 
 
 Who turned her large round wheel in the open air 
 
 With back and forward steps. Towards the field 
 
 In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
 
 Many a long look of wonder ; and at last, 
 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
 
 He laid his implements with gentle care, 
 
 Each in the other locked ; and, down the path 
 
 Which from his cottage to the church -yard led^ 
 
95 
 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 
 The Stranger, whom he saw stiJl lingering there, 
 
 '*Twas one well known to him in former days, 
 A Shepherd-lad ; — who ere his sixteenth year 
 Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 And perilous waters,— -with the mariners 
 A fellow-mariner, — and so had fared 
 Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 Of caves and trees : — and, when the regular wind 
 Between the tropics filled the steady sail. 
 And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
 And, while the broad green wave and sparkhng foam 
 Flashtd round hnn images and hues that wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 
96 
 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome;, 
 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
 
 Saw mountains, — saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 
 On verdant hills — with dwelhngs among trees, 
 
 And shepherds clad in the same country gray 
 
 Which he himself had worn *. 
 
 And now at last 
 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by traffic in the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is returned. 
 With a determined purpose to resume 
 The life which he lived there ; both for the sake 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he has borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. 
 — They were the last of all their race : and now 
 When Leonard had approached his home, his heart 
 
 * This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imper- 
 fect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, au- 
 thor of The Hurricane. 
 
97 
 
 Failed in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
 
 Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved, 
 
 Tow^ards the church-yard he had turned aside,— 
 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 
 If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
 
 Another grave was added. — He had found 
 
 Another grave, — near which a full half-hour 
 
 He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
 
 Such a confusion in his memory. 
 
 That he began to doubt ; and he had hopes 
 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, — • 
 
 That it was not another grave, but one 
 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path^^ 
 
 As up the vale that afternoon he walked 
 
 Through fields which once had been well known to him 
 
 And oh ! what joy the recollection now 
 
 Sent to his heart ! He lifted up his eyes, 
 
 And looking round imagined that he saw 
 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks. 
 
 And the eternal hillsj themselves were changed. 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 Stopped shorty — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. 
 
 Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 
 ^is one of those who needs must leave the path 
 
 Of the worhFs business to go wild alone : 
 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
 
 The happy Man will creep about the fields 
 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 
 Tears down his cheeks, or solitary smiles 
 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 
 Write Fool upon his forehead • Planted thus 
 
 Beneath a shed that overarched the gate 
 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appealed 
 
 The good man might have communed w ith himself;, 
 
 But that the stranger, who had left the grave, 
 
 Approached ; he recognized the Priest at once. 
 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 
 
 Leonard. 
 You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
 Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each other, 
 They caimot be remembered ? Scarce a funeral 
 
99 
 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; 
 And yet, some changes must take place among you : 
 And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 
 
 For many years ago I passed this road, 
 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields 
 
 By the brook-side — 'tis gone— and that dark cleft ! 
 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 
 Which then it had, 
 
 Priest. 
 Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 
 That chasm is much the same — 
 
 Leonakd. 
 
 But, surely, yonder— 
 
 Priest. 
 Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
 That does not play you false— On that tall pike 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
 There were two Springs which bubbled side by side, 
 As if they had been made that they might be 
 Companions for each other: ten years back, 
 Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 Was rent with lightning— one is dead and gone, 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still.* — — 
 For accidents and changes such as these, 
 We want not store of them! — a water-spout 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast 
 For folks that wander up and down like you 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff 
 One roaring cataract ! — a sharp May-storm 
 Will come with loads of January snow, 
 And in one night send twenty score of sheep 
 To feed the ravens; or a Shepherd dies 
 By some untoward death amang the rocks : 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge — 
 A wood is felled : — and then for our own homes ! 
 A Child is born or christened, a Field ploughed, 
 A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun. 
 The old House-clock is decked with a new face ; 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving. Sir, 
 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side — 
 
 * This actually took place upon Kidstow Pike at the head oi 
 Hawe's-water. 
 
101 
 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment : for Historians, 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 
 Leonakd. 
 
 Yet your Church-yard 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
 To say that you are heedless of the past. 
 An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
 Here's neither head- nor foot-stone, plate of brass^ 
 Cross-bones or skull, — type of our earthly state 
 Or emblem of our hopes : the dead man's home 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
 
 Priest. 
 Why, there. Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 
 The Stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 
 If every English Church-yard were like ours ; 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
 And then, for our immortal part ! we want 
 No symbols. Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains* 
 
 Leonakd. 
 Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 
102 
 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these Graves ? 
 
 Priest. 
 For eight-score winters past, 
 With what I \e witnessed, and with m hat I \e heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter's evening, 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook. 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one 
 We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
 Yet all in the broad high-way of the world. 
 Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
 It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 ^Tis a common case. 
 We'll take another : who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the church-yard wall. 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That's Walter Ewbank. 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 As eVer w^ere produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 Tlirough five long generations had the heart 
 
10 
 
 Q 
 
 Of Walter's forefathers overflowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage**- 
 You see it yonder! — and those few green fields. 
 They toiled and wrought, and still, from Sire to Son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little — yet a little — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 
 Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank. 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurred him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two Grandsons after him : — but You, 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night. 
 Have far to travel,— and on these rough paths 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer — 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But those two Orphans ! 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Qj-phans ! — Such they were — 
 
104 
 
 Yet not while Walter lived:— for^, though their parents 
 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
 
 The old Man w as a father to the boys, 
 
 Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 
 
 Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love. 
 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
 
 This old Man in the day of his old age 
 
 Was half a mother to them. — If you weep. Sir, 
 
 To hear a Stranger talking about Strangers, 
 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred i 
 
 Ay — You may turn that way — it is a grave 
 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 These Boys — I hope 
 They loved this good old Man ? — 
 
 Priest. 
 
 They did — and truly : 
 But that was what we almost overlooked, 
 They were such darlings of each other. For 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with Waiter 
 The only Kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to them, by reason of his age, 
 With a more fond, familiar tenderness. 
 They, i^otwithstanding, had much love to spare^ 
 
105 
 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
 
 Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 
 
 To hear, to meet them ! — From their house the School 
 
 Was distant three short miles — and in the time 
 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 
 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 
 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
 
 Remained at home, go staggering through the fords. 
 
 Bearing his Brother on his back. I've seen him. 
 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks. 
 
 Ay, more than once I've seen him mid-leg deep, 
 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone 
 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said, 
 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 
 And hills on which we all of us were born. 
 
 That God who made the great book of the world 
 
 Would bless such piety — ■ 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 It may be then — 
 Priest. 
 Never did worthier lads break English bread ! 
 
106 
 
 The finest Sunday that the Autumn savv^ 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts^ 
 Could never keep these boys away from church-^ 
 Or tempt tliem to an hour of sabbath breach- 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there, 
 Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills : 
 They played like two young Ravens on the crags : 
 Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
 The very night before he went away, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I'd wager twenty pounds, 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
 Leonard. 
 It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
 A comfort to each other. — 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That they might 
 Live to such end, is what both old and young 
 
 In this our valley all of us have wished, 
 And what, for my part, J have often prayed : 
 But Leonard — 
 
107 
 
 Leonard. 
 Then James still is left among you ? 
 Priest. 
 ^Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking : 
 They had an Uncle ; — he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas : 
 And, but for that same Uncle, to this hour 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. 
 For the Boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 And, though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
 His soul was knit to this his native soiK 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak ^ 
 
 To strive with such a torrent ; when he died. 
 The Estate and House were sold, and all their Sheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught 1 know, 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years. 
 Well — all was gone, and they were destitute. 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake. 
 Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
 Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him. 
 If there was one among us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
 
108 
 
 From the great Gavel '*', down by Leeza's Banks, 
 
 And down the Enna^ far as Egremont, 
 
 The day would be a very festival ; 
 
 And those two bells of ours, which there you see 
 
 Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir! 
 
 This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him 
 
 Living or dead. — When last we heard of him 
 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 
 Upon the Barbary Coast. — 'Twas not a little 
 
 That would bring down his spirit; and^ no doubt, 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the Youth 
 
 Was sadly crossed— Poor Leonard ! when we parted. 
 
 He took me by the hand and said to me, 
 
 If ever the day came when he was rich. 
 
 He would return, and on his Father's Land 
 
 He would grow old among us. 
 
 *The Great Gavel, so called, 1 imagine, from lis resemblance to 
 the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland 
 mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, 
 Wastdale, and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Lceza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on 
 issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the Etid, 
 Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little below Egremont. 
 
109 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 If that day 
 Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him ; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
 As any that should meet him — 
 
 Priest. 
 
 Happy ! Sir — 
 Leonard. 
 You said his kindred all were in their graves^ 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 Priest. 
 
 That is but 
 A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate ; 
 And Leonard being always by his side 
 Had done so many offices about him, 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
 Yet still the spirit of a Mountain Boy 
 In him was somewhat checked ; and, when his Biother 
 Was gone to sea and he was left alone, 
 The little colour that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek ; he drooped, and pined, and pined- — 
 
 Leonard. 
 But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! 
 
110 
 
 Priest. 
 Ay, Sir^, that passed away : we took him to us ; 
 He was the Child of all the dale — he lived / 
 
 Three months with one, and six months with another 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: 
 And many, many happy days were his. 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 That often, rising from his bed at night. 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 
 He sought his Brother Leonard. — You are mot^d 1 
 Forgive me. Sir : before I spoke to you, 
 I judged you most unkindly. 
 
 Leonard. 
 
 But this Youth, 
 How^ did he die at last ? 
 
 Priest. 
 
 One sweet May mornings 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs, 
 With two or three Companions whom it chanced 
 Some further business summoned to a house 
 
Ill 
 
 Which stands at the Dale-head, James, tired perhaps 
 
 Or from some other cause, remained behind. 
 
 You see yon Precipice— it ahiiost looks 
 
 Like some vast building made of many crags ; 
 
 j^nd in the midst is one particular rock 
 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 
 Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
 
 James pointed to its summit, over which 
 
 They all had purposed to return together, 
 
 And told them that he there would wait for them : 
 
 They parted, and his Comrades passed that way 
 
 Some two hours after, but they did not find him 
 
 Upon the Summit — at the appointed place. 
 
 Of this they took no heed : but one of them, 
 
 Going by chance, at night, into the house 
 
 Which at that time was Jameses home, there learned 
 
 That nobody had seen him all that day : 
 
 The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
 
 The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Brook 
 
 Some went, and some towards the Lake : ere noon 
 
 They found him at the foot of that same Rock — 
 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 ? 
 
112 
 
 Leonard. 
 And that then is his grave? — Before his death 
 You said that he saw many happy years ? 
 
 Priest. 
 Ay, that he did— 
 
 Leonard. 
 And all went well with him — 
 Priest. 
 If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes. 
 
 Leonard. 
 And you believe, then, that his mind was easy — - 
 
 Priest. 
 Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
 His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 
 He talked about him with a cheerful love. 
 
 Leonard. 
 He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 
 
 Priest, 
 Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect I mentioned 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 
113 
 
 Upon the grass, — and, waiting for his comrades, 
 
 He there had fallen asleep ; that in his sleep 
 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong. 
 
 And so no doubt he perished : at the time, 
 
 We guess, that in his hands he must have had 
 
 His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff 
 
 It had been caught; and there for many years 
 
 It hung — and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
 And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, — 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, ^^ My Brother.'' 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : and now, 
 Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
 
 The other thanked him with a fervent voice j 
 
 But added, that, the evening being calm. 
 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 VOLo lo 1 
 
114 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
 That overhung the road : he there stopped short; 
 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 Were with him in his heart : his cherished hopes, 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour before. 
 All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 So he relinquished all his purposes. 
 He travelled on to Egremont : and thence. 
 That night, he w rote a letter to the Priest, 
 Reminduig him of what had passed betw^een them ; 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner* 
 
 ^^^^!^^? 
 
 
115 
 
 11. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade. 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the chance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight.— 
 I started — seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed, — 
 The Sparrow^s dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father's House, in wet or dry, 
 My Sister Emmeline and I 
 
 Together visited. 
 She looked at it as if she feared it ; 
 Still wishing, dreading to be neai:- it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a Boy: 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 And love, and thought, and joy. 
 
 1 2 
 
116 
 
 III. 
 TO A BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I've watched you now a full half-hour, 
 Self-poised upon that yellow flower ; 
 And, little Butterfly ! indeed 
 I know not if you sleep or feed. 
 How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
 More motionless ! and then 
 What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
 Hath found you out among the trees, 
 And calls you forth again ! 
 
 This plot of Orchard-ground is ours ; 
 My trees they are, my Sister's flowers ; 
 Here rest your wings when they are weary, 
 Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
 Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 
 Sit near us on the bough ! 
 We'll talk of sunshine and of song ; 
 And summer days when we were young ; 
 Sweet childish days, that were as long 
 As twenty days are now. 
 
117 
 
 IV. 
 
 COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802, 
 
 Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain^ground, 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 Of that magnificent Temple which doth bound 
 One side of our whole Vale with grandeur rare ; 
 Sweet Garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 The loveliest spot that man hath ever found. 
 Farewell ! — we leave thee to heaven's peaceful care, 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround. 
 
 Our Boat is safely anchored by the shore. 
 And safely she will ride when we are gone ; 
 The flowering shrubs that decorate our door 
 Will prosper, though untended and alone : 
 Fields, goods, and far-off" chattels we have none ; 
 These narrow bounds contain our private store 
 Of things earth makes and sun doth shine upon ; 
 Here are they in our sight — we have no more. 
 
/ 
 
 118 
 
 Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell^ 
 For two months now in vain we shall be sought ; 
 We leave you here in solitude to dwell 
 With these our latest gifts of tender thought; 
 Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat 
 Bright gowan, and marsh-marygold, farewell ! 
 Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, 
 And placed together near our rocky well. 
 
 We go for One to whom ye will be dear ; 
 And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, 
 Our own contrivance, Building without peer, 
 A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred. 
 Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered ! 
 With joyousness and with a thoughtful cheer 
 ^he'U come to you, — to you herself w ill wed, — 
 And love the blessed life which we lead here. 
 
 Dear Spot ! which we have watched with tender heed, 
 Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown 
 Among the distant mountains, flower and weed 
 Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own^ 
 
119 
 
 Making all kindness register'd and known ; 
 
 Thou for our sakes^ though Nature's Child indeed, 
 
 Fair in thyself and beautiful alone, 
 
 Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need* 
 
 And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, 
 That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost shew 
 To them who look not daily in thy face ; 
 Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, 
 And say'st when we forsake thee, '' Let them go !'' 
 Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race 
 Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slovv,^ — 
 And travel with the year at a soft pace. 
 
 Help us to tell her tales of years gone by. 
 And this sweet spring the best beloved and best, 
 
 Joy will be flown in its mortality ; 
 
 Something must stay to tell us of the rest. 
 
 Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast 
 
 Ghtter'd at evening like a starry sky ; ^ 
 
 And in this Bush our Sparrow built her nest, 
 
 Of which I sung one Song that will not die. 
 
120 
 
 O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep 
 Hath been so friendly to industrious hours.; 
 And to soft slumbers that did gently steep 
 Our spirits^ carrying with them dreams of flowers 
 And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ; 
 Two burning months let summer overleap, 
 And, coming back with Her who will be ours^ 
 Into thy bosom we again shall creep* 
 
121 
 
 V. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON^S 
 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 
 
 Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 
 
 For never sun on living creature shone 
 
 Who more devout enjoyment with us took* 
 
 Here on his hours he hung as on a book ; 
 
 On his own time here would he float awaj^ 
 
 As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 
 
 But go to-morrow — or belike to-day — 
 
 Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can say. 
 
 Thus often would he leave our peaceful home 
 
 And find elsewhere his business or delight; 
 
 Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 
 
 Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 
 
 His voice came to us from the neighbouring height : 
 
122 
 
 Oft did we see him driving full in view 
 
 At mid-day when the sun w^as shining bright ; 
 
 What ill was on him^ what he had to do, 
 
 A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 
 
 Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this man 
 
 When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 
 
 Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 
 
 Down would he sit ; and without strength or power 
 
 Look at the common grass from hour to hour : 
 
 And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. 
 
 Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 
 
 Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ; 
 
 And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. 
 
 Great w^onder to our gentle Tribe it was 
 
 Whenever from our Valley he w ithdrew ; 
 
 For happier soul no living creature has 
 
 Than he had, being here the long day through. 
 
 Some thought he was a lover, and did woo : 
 
 Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong : 
 
 But Verse was what he had been wedded to ; 
 
 And his own mind did like a tempest strong 
 
 Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. 
 
12 
 
 <> 
 
 With him there often walked in friendly guise 
 Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree 
 A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 
 Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
 Profound his forehead was, though not severe; 
 Yet some did think that he had little business here : 
 
 Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful right; 
 
 Noisy he v/as, and gamesome as a boy ; 
 
 His limbs would toss about him with delight 
 
 Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 
 
 Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
 
 To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 
 
 He would have taught you how you might employ 
 
 Yourself; and many did to him repair, — 
 
 And, certes, not in vain ; he had inventions rare. 
 
 Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, 
 
124 
 
 Made— to his eat attentively applied — 
 
 A Pipe on which the wind would deftly play ; 
 
 Glasses he had, that little things display, — 
 
 The beetle with hisradiance manifold, 
 
 A mailed angel on a battle day ; 
 
 And cups of flowers, and herbage green and gold ; 
 
 And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 
 His music, and to view his imagery : 
 
 And, sooth, these two did love each other dear, 
 
 As far as love in such a place could be ; 
 
 There did they dwell — from earthly labour free, 
 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 
 If but a bird, to keep them company. 
 
 Or butterfly sate down, they w ere, I ween. 
 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen 
 
25 
 
 VI. 
 
 ELLEN inWlN, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE BRAES OF KIRTLE.* 
 
 Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate 
 Upon the Braes of Kirtle, 
 Was lovely as a Grecian Maid 
 Adorned with wreaths of myrtle. 
 Young Adam Bruce beside her lay ; 
 And there did they beguile the day 
 With love and gentle speeches, 
 Beneath the budding beeches. 
 
 From many Knights and many Squires 
 The Bruce had been selected ; 
 And Gordon, fairest of them all, 
 By Ellen was rejected. 
 Sad tidings to that noble Youth ! 
 For it may be proclaimed with truth, 
 
 * The Kirde is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on 
 whose banks the events here related took place. 
 
V26 
 
 If Bruce hath loved sincerely, 
 That Gordon loves as dearly. 
 
 But what is Gordon's beauteous face ? 
 And v\ hat are Gordon^s crosses 
 To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes 
 Upon the verdant mosses ? 
 Alas that ever he was born ! 
 The Gordon, couched behind a thorn, 
 Sees them and their caressing, 
 Beholds them blest and blessing. 
 
 Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, — 
 And, starting up, to Bruce's heart 
 He launched a deadly javelin! 
 Fair Ellen saw it when it came, 
 And, stepping forth to meet the same, 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth, her chosen lo\^r. 
 
 And, falling into Bruce's arms. 
 Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 Thus from the heart of her True-love 
 The mortal spear repelling. 
 
127 
 
 And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
 The Gordon, sailed away to Spain ; 
 And fought with rage incessant 
 Against the Moorish Crescent. 
 
 But many days, and many months, 
 And many years ensuing, 
 This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
 The death that he w as wooing : 
 And coming back across th(5 wave, 
 Without a groan on Ellen^s grav^ 
 His body he extended^ 
 And there his sorrow ended. 
 
 Now ye, w^ho w illingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling, 
 May in Kirkonnel churchyaiil view 
 The grave of lovely Ellen : 
 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid; 
 And, for the stone upon his head,^ 
 May no rude hand deface it, 
 And its forlorn Hi c J AC fix I 
 
128 
 
 VII- 
 
 Strange fits of passion I have known : 
 
 And I will dare to tell, 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 
 What once to me befel. 
 
 When she I loved was strong and gay, 
 And like a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath the evening Moon. 
 
 Upon the Mcon I fixed my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea : 
 
 My Horse tradged on^ — and we drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached the orchard plot; 
 And, as we climbed the hill. 
 Towards the roof of Lucy's cot 
 The Moon descended still. 
 
129 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon! 
 And, all the while, my eyes I kept 
 On the descending Moon. 
 
 My Horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopp'd : 
 When down behind the cottage roof 
 At once the bright Moon droppM. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 Into a Lover's head — 
 
 ^^ O mercy T to myself I cried, 
 
 ^^ If Lucy should be dead T' 
 
 VOL !• K 
 
130 
 
 VIII 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove^ 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A Violet b}^ a mossy stone 
 
 Half-hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her Grave, and, oh. 
 
 The difference to me 1 
 
131 
 
 IX. 
 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown Men^ 
 
 In Lands beyond the Sea ; 
 Nor^ England ! did I know till then 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more, 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And She I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings shewed, thy nights concealed 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 
 And thine is too the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 
 K 2 
 
135 
 
 X. 
 
 LOU IS J. 
 
 1 MET Louisa in the shade ; 
 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid^^ 
 
 Why should I fear to say 
 
 That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong ; 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along^ 
 
 Like rivulets in May ? 
 
 And she hath smiles to earth unknown j> 
 Smiles, that with motion of their own 
 Do spread, and sink, and rise ; 
 That come and go with endless play^ 
 And ever, as they pass away. 
 Are hidden in her eyese 
 
133 
 
 She loves her fire, her Cottage-home; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak ; 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek. 
 
 Take all that^s mine '' beneath the moon/^ 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook. 
 
 When up she winds along the brook, 
 
 To hunt the waterfallso 
 
134 
 
 XL 
 
 ^Tis said, that some have died for love> 
 
 And here and there a church-yard grave is found 
 
 In the cold North's unhallowed ground, — 
 
 Because the wretched Man himself had slain, 
 
 His love was such a grievous pain. 
 
 And there is one whom I five years have known ^ 
 
 He dwells alone 
 
 Upon Helvellyn's side : 
 
 He loved the pretty Barbara died, 
 
 And thus he makes his moan : 
 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid 
 
 When thus his moan he made ; 
 
 ^^ Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak ! 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie. 
 That in some other way yon smoke 
 May mount into the sky ! 
 
135 
 
 The clouds pass on ; they from the heavens depart : 
 
 I look — the sky is empty space ; 
 
 I know not what I trace ; 
 
 But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heartc 
 
 ^^ O ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye leaves, 
 
 When will that dying murmur be supprest ? 
 
 Your sound my heart of peace bereaves. 
 
 It robs my heart of rest. 
 
 Thou Thrush, that singest loud — and loud and free, 
 
 Into yon row of willows flit. 
 
 Upon that alder sit ; 
 
 Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 
 
 '^ Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds. 
 
 And there for ever be thy waters chained ! 
 
 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 
 
 That cannot be sustained ; 
 
 If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough 
 
 Headlong yon waterfall must come. 
 
 Oh let it then be dumb! — 
 
 Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. 
 
136 
 
 ^^ Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, 
 
 (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) 
 
 Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers. 
 
 And stir not in the gale. 
 
 For thus to see thee nodding in the air, — 
 
 To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, 
 
 Thus rise and thus descend,-— 
 
 Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear/' 
 
 The Man who makes this feverish complaint 
 Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
 Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle Love ! nor let me walk 
 Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know 
 Such happiness as I have known to-day. 
 
137 
 
 XII. 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF A 
 
 FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN 
 
 iWhcn 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 sup- 
 plied 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 
 h-c should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. 
 The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very 
 interesting work, Heame's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern 
 Ocean. In the high Northern Latitudes, as the same writer informs us, 
 when the Northern Lights 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 poemJ\ 
 
 Before I see another da}^, 
 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 
 
 The stars were mingled with 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 se€ another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
138 
 
 My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 
 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain. 
 
 All stiflr with ice the ashes lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When T 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 ! ye might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single one ! 
 
 Too soon I yielded to despair ; 
 
 Why did ye listen to my prayer ? 
 
 When ye 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 ye were gone away^ 
 
39 
 
 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 working 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 helpless 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 dyings 
 Could I with thee a message send ! 
 Too soon, my Friends, ye went away : 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
140 
 
 Fll follow you across the snow ; 
 
 Ye travel heavily and slow; 
 
 In spite of all my weary pain, 
 
 ril 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 r 
 
141 
 
 XIII. 
 
 THE 
 
 LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 In distant countries have I 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 j 
 Along the broad high-w^ay he came^ 
 His cheeks with tears were wet. 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad , 
 And in his arms a Lamb he had* 
 
142 
 
 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 followed 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 numbered a full score. 
 And every year increased 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. 
 
 Six 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 asked relief. 
 
 They said I was a w^ealthy 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 r 
 
 1?^ 
 
144 
 
 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 woefid 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 v/as 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. 
 
145 
 
 To wicked deeds I was inclined, 
 And wicked fancies crossed my mind 
 And every man I chanced 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. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
146 
 
 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.'^ 
 
147 
 
 XIV. 
 
 J COMPLAINT. 
 
 There is a change — and I am poor; 
 Your Love hath been, nor long ago, 
 A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, 
 Whose only business was to flow ; 
 And flow it did ; not taking heed 
 Of its own bounty, or my need. 
 
 What happy moments did I count ! 
 Bless'd was I then all bliss above ! 
 Now, for this consecrated Fount 
 Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 
 What have I ? shall I dare to tell ? 
 A comfortless and hidden well* 
 
 A Well of love — it may be deep — 
 I trust it is, and never dry : 
 What matter ? if the Waters sleep 
 In silence and obscurity. 
 — Such change, and at the very door 
 Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor. 
 
 l2 
 
148 
 
 XV. 
 RUTH. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate 
 Her Father took another Mate ; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old^ 
 A slighted Child, at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill. 
 In thoughtless freedom bold. 
 
 And she had made a Pipe of straw, 
 And from that oaten Pipe could draw 
 All sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a Bower upon the green^ 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An Infant of the w oods. 
 
 Beneath her Father's roof, alone 
 
 She seemed to live ; her thoughts her own 
 
 Herself her own delight : 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, 
 
 She passed her time ; and in this w ay 
 
 Grew up to Woman's heidit. 
 
149 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's shore 
 
 A military Casque he M^ore 
 
 With splendid feathers drest ; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze, 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung : 
 Ah no! he spake the English tongue, 
 
 And bore a Soldier's name ; 
 And, when America was free 
 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak, 
 —While he was yet a JBoy 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 And streams that mOrmur as they run^ 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth! I guess 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
150 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play. 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought ; 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 Of pleasure and of fear ; 
 Such tales as, told to any Maid 
 By such a Youth, in the green shade. 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of Girls, a happy rout ! 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian Town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long ; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When day-light is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants divine and strange 
 That every hour their blossoms change, 
 Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
 With budding, fading, faded flow^ers 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to eveijing dews. 
 
151 
 
 He told of the Magnolia^, spread 
 
 High as a cloud, high over head ! 
 
 The Cypress and her spire, 
 
 — Of flowers f that with one scarlet gleam 
 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake. 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 And then he said ^^ How sweet it were 
 
 A fisher or a hunter there, 
 
 A gardener in the shade, 
 
 Still wandering with an easy mind 
 
 To build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade! 
 
 * Magnolia grand iflora. 
 
 f The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are 
 scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of 
 North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels. 
 
152 
 
 ^^ What days and what sweet years! Ah me ! 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 So passed in quiet bliss, 
 
 And all the while/' said he, ^' to know 
 
 That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 On such an earth as this !^ 
 
 «{ 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Dear thoughts about a Father^s love, 
 ^^ For there,^^ said he, '^ are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties, 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the sun. 
 
 '' Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 
 Our shed at night to rear ; 
 
 Or run, my own adopted Bride, 
 
 A sylvan Huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer ! 
 
 ^^ Beloved Ruth ^ — No more he said. 
 Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear : 
 
153 
 
 She thought again — and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 ^^ And now, as fitting is and right. 
 We in the Church our faith will plight, 
 A Husband and a Wife/' 
 Even so they did ; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That, on those lonesome floods, 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods* 
 
 But, as you have before been told. 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold. 
 And with his dancing crest 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roamed about with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
154 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky, 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth — so much of Heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those Climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less to feed voluptuous thought 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent ; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those gorgeous bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent ; 
 
155 
 
 For passions linked to forms so fair 
 And stately needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment* 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately and undeceived 
 Those wild men's vices he received^ 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 r 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impaired, and he became 
 The slave of low desires : 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feigned delight 
 Had wooed the maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature played ? 
 So kind and so forlorn ! 
 
156 
 
 But now the pleasant dream was gone ; 
 No hope, no wish remained, not one, — 
 They stirred him now no more ; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wished to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared, 
 And went to the sea-shore ; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 ^^ God help thee, Ruth !'^ — -Such pains she had 
 
 That she hi half a year was mad 
 
 And in a prison housed ; 
 
 And there, exulting in her wrongs, 
 
 Among the musiq of her songs 
 
 She fearfully caroused. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 
157 
 
 — They all were with her in her cell ; 
 And a wild brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain 
 There came a respite to her pain, 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the Vagrant none took thought; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again : 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free ; 
 And, coming to the banks of Tone ^^ 
 There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 * The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from 
 the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stan- 
 zas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered 
 with Coppice woods. 
 
1.58 
 
 The vernal leaves, she loved them stilly 
 Nor ever taxed them with the ill 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Barn her zcinter bed supplies ; 
 
 But till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree^ 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray ! 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day. 
 
 Be broken down and old. 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have! but [ei^i> 
 
 Of mind, than body's w retchedness. 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is pressed by want of food. 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 And there she begs at one steep place^ 
 Where up and down with easy pace . 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
159 
 
 That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, 
 Or thrown away ; but with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk;, 
 At evening in his homeward m alk 
 The Quantock Woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have passed her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild — 
 Such small machinery as she turned 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy days are told, 
 Ill-fated Ruth ! in hallowed mould 
 Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring. 
 And all the congregation sing 
 A Christian psalm for thee* 
 
160 
 
 XVI. 
 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFJNT. 
 
 JBY A FEMALE FRIEND. 
 
 See page 8.. 
 
 The days are cold, the nights are long;^ 
 
 The north-wind sings a doleful song ; 
 Then hush again upon my breast ; 
 All merry things are now at rest, 
 
 Save thee, my pretty Love ! 
 
 The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, 
 The crickets long have ceased their mirth ; 
 There's nothing stirring in the house 
 Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse, 
 Then why so busy thou ? 
 
 Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 
 'Tis but the moon that shines so bright 
 On the window-pane bedropped with rain : 
 Then, little Darhng ! sleep again, \ 
 And M^ake when it is day. 
 
I6l 
 
 XVII. 
 
 THE SAILORS MOTHER. 
 
 One morning (raw it was and wet, 
 A foggy day in winter time) 
 A Woman on the road I met^ 
 Not old, though something past her prime : 
 Majestic in her person, tall and straight ; 
 And like a Roman matron^s was her mien and gait. 
 
 The ancient Spirit is not dead ; 
 Old times, thought I, are breathing there ; 
 Proud was I that my country bred 
 Such strength, a dignity so fair : 
 She begged an alms, like one in poor estate ; 
 I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. 
 
 When from these lofty thoughts I woke, 
 With the first word I had to spare 
 I said to her, " Beneath your Cloak 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
ar-^ 
 
 66 
 
 152 
 
 Wliat's that which on your arm you bear?^^ 
 She answered^ soon as she the question heard 
 ^ A simple burthen^ Sir, a little Singing-bird, 
 
 5> 
 
 And, thus continuing, she said, 
 ^^ I had a Son, M^ho many a day 
 Sailed on the seas ; but he is dead; 
 In Denmark he was cast away ; 
 And I have travelled far as Hull, to see 
 What clothes he might have left, or other property 
 
 *^ The Bird and Cage they both were his ; 
 ^Twas my Son's Bird ; and neat and trim 
 He kept it : many voyages 
 His Singing-bird hath gone with him ; 
 When last he sailed he left the Bh d behind ; 
 As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind, 
 
 '^^ He to a Fellow-lodger's care 
 Had left it, to be w^atched and fed, 
 Till he came back again ; and there 
 I found it when my Son was dead ; 
 And now, God help me for my little wit ! 
 I trail it with me, Sir ! he took so much delight in it,' 
 
163 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 ^' Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay ; 
 The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds/^ 
 
 — Of coats and of jackets gray, scarlet, and green. 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen ; 
 With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow. 
 The Girls on the hills made a holiday show. 
 
 The bason of box-wood^, just six months before, 
 Had stood on the table at Timothy's door; 
 A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had past ; 
 One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last. 
 
 * In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes 
 place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of 
 the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who 
 attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and 
 throws it into the grave of the deceased. 
 
 M 2 . 
 
164 
 
 Now fast up the dell came the noise and the iray^ 
 The horse and the horn, and the hark ! hark away ? 
 Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
 With a leisurely motion the door of his hut. 
 
 Perhaps to himself at that moment he said^ 
 *' The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'^ 
 But of this in my ears not a word did he speak. 
 And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheeL 
 
 ^ 
 
165 
 
 XIX. 
 
 THE AFFLICTION 
 
 OF 
 
 MARGARET OF 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
 Or, if the grave be now^ thy bed. 
 Why am I ignorant of the same 
 That I may rest; and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 To have despaired, and have believed. 
 And be for evermore beguiled ; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this ? 
 
166 
 
 He was among the prime in worthy 
 An object beauteous to behold ; 
 Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 If things ensued that wanted grace, 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the Young One dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power hath even his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his Mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a Mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
 
 From that ill thought ; and, being blind, 
 
 Said, ^' Pride shall help me in my wrong : 
 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed :^' and tliat is true \ 
 
 Tve wet my path with tears like dew. 
 
 Weeping for him when no one knew^ 
 
My Soil, if thou be humbled, poor,, 
 Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
 Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 1 now can see with better e3^es ; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of Heaven have wings. 
 And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight ; 
 
 They mount, how short a voyage brings 
 The Wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee- 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 Or thou upon a Desart thrown 
 Inheritest the Lion's Den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the Deep, 
 Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
168 
 
 1 look for Ghosts ; but none will force 
 Their way to me ; 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Betwixt the living and the dead ; 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 Of Him I wait for day and night. 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to- shake me as they pass : 
 I question things, and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 If any chance to heave a sigh 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
 I have no other earthly friend. 
 
169 
 
 > 
 
 XX. 
 
 Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourned 
 In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell ; 
 The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourned, 
 In friendship she to me would often tell. 
 
 This Lady, dwelling upon English ground, 
 Where she was childless, daily did repair 
 To a poor neighbouring Cottage ; as I found, 
 For sake of a young Child whose home was there. 
 
 Once did I see her clasp the Child about, 
 
 And take it to herself; and I, next day. 
 
 Wished in my native tongue to fashion out 
 
 Such things as she unto this Child might say : 
 
 And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed, 
 
 My song the workings of her heart expressed. 
 
170 
 
 ^^ Dear Babe, though Daughter of another^ 
 One moment let me be thy Mother ! 
 An Infant's face and looks are thme ; 
 And sure a Mother's heart is mine : 
 Thy own dear Mother^s far away, 
 At'Jabour in the harvest-field : 
 Thy little Sister is at play ; — 
 What warmth, what comfort would it yield 
 To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be 
 One little hour a child to me ! 
 
 Across the waters I am come, 
 
 And I have left a Babe at home : 
 
 A long, long way of land and sea! 
 
 Come to me — I'm no enemy : 
 
 I am the same who at thy side 
 
 Sate yesterday, and made a nest 
 
 For thee, sweet Baby ! — thou hast tried. 
 
 Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast : 
 
 Good, good art thou ; — alas ! to me 
 
 Far more than I can be to thee* 
 
1 
 
 Herfe, little Darling, dost thou lie ; 
 
 An Infant Thou, a Mother I ! 
 
 Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears ; 
 
 Mine art thou — spite of these my tears* 
 
 Alas ! before I left the spot, 
 
 My Baby and its dwelling-place ; 
 
 The Nurse said to me, ^ Tears should not 
 
 Be shed upon an Infant's face, 
 
 It was unlucky^ — no, no, no ; 
 
 No truth is in them who say so ! 
 
 My own dear Little-one will sigh, 
 Sweet Babe ! and they will let him die. 
 ^ He pines,' they'll say, ^ it is his doom, 
 And you may see his hour is come.' 
 Oh ! had he but thy cheerful smiles. 
 Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay. 
 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles. 
 And countenance like a summer's day, 
 They would have hopes of him—and then 
 I should behold his face again ! 
 
172 
 
 ^Tis gone— forgotten — let me do 
 
 My best — there was a smile or two^ 
 I can remember them^ I see 
 The smiles^ worth all the world to me. 
 Dear Baby ! I must lay thee down ; 
 Thou troubles! me with strange alarms ; 
 Smiles hast Thou^ sweet ones of thy own ; 
 I cannot keep thee in my arms, 
 For they confound me : as it is, 
 I have forgot those smiles of his. 
 
 Oh ! how I love thee ! — we will stay 
 
 Together here this one half day. 
 
 My Sister's Child, who bears my name, 
 
 From France across the Ocean came ; 
 
 She with her Mother crossed the sea ; 
 
 The Babe and Mother near me dwell : 
 
 My Darling, she is not to me 
 
 What thou art ! though I love her well : 
 
 Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here ! 
 
 Never was any Child more dear ! 
 
• 173 
 
 —I cannot help it — ill intent 
 IVe none^ my pretty Innocent! 
 I weep — I know they do thee wrongs 
 These tears — and my poor idle tongue^ 
 Oh^ what a kiss was that ! my cheek 
 How cold it is ! but thou art good ; 
 Thine eyes are on me — they would speak^ 
 I think^ to help me if they could. 
 Blessings upon that quiet face. 
 My heart again is in its place ! 
 
 While thou art mine, my little Love^ 
 
 This cannot be a sorrowful grove ; 
 
 Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee, 
 
 I seem to find them all in thee : 
 
 Here's grass to play with, here are flowers ; 
 
 ril call thee by my Darling's name; 
 
 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours. 
 
 Thy features seem to me the same ; 
 
 His little Sister thou shalt be : 
 
 And, when once more my home I see^ 
 
 111 tell him many tales of Thee/' 
 
XXI 
 
 J 
 
 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-w^ood 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. 
 
175 
 
 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. 
 
 Sack, little Babe, oh suck again ! 
 It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 
 Thy lips I feel them, BabyJ^ 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 prest. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree ; 
 It come.^ to cool my Babe and me* 
 
176 
 
 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 sirig 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
177 
 
 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 stayed : 
 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 awayo 
 
 VOL. I- "^^ 
 
178 
 
 l^Ii teach my Boy the sweetest things ; 
 
 ni teach him how the owlet sings. 
 
 My little Babe ! thy lips are still. 
 
 And thou hast almost sucked 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.'^ 
 
179 
 
 / 
 
 XXII. 
 
 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? 
 
 N 2 
 
180 
 
 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, 
 O Betty, she '11 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. 
 
181 
 
 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 \vill 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 ii> 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. 
 
182 
 
 Tliere 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 Vi^hat to follow, what to shun^ 
 What do, and what to leave und(»ne, 
 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, whatever 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. 
 
1{ 
 
 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 sreen bousrh'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, 
 
184 
 
 And Betty's standing at the door, 
 And Betty's face with joy overflows, 
 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 f 
 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. 
 
185 
 
 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. 
 
186 
 
 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 theii 
 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 w ill not telL 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans ; 
 ^^ As sure as there's a moon in heaven,'^ 
 Cries Betty, '' he '11 be back again ; 
 They'll both be here — 'tis almost ten — 
 They'll both be here before eleven/' 
 
187 
 
 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 hi sight, 
 — The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees 
 But Beity is not quite at ease ; 
 And Susan has a dieadful mght. 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago. 
 On Johnny vile reflections cast: 
 ^^ A iittle idle samitenng Thuig T 
 With other names, an endless string, 
 Bu^ now that time is gone and past. 
 
 And Betty's drooping at the heart, 
 That happy u>ne all past and gone, 
 ^^ How can it be he is so late ? 
 The Doctor he has made him wait^ 
 Susaa! they'll both be here anon/' 
 
\ 
 
 188 
 
 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 j 
 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 drowned, 
 
 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. 
 
189 
 
 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, g^^wg, 
 ^' What can I do to ease your pain ? 
 Good Susan tell me, and FlI stay; 
 I fear you 're in a dreadful way, 
 But I shall soon be back again.*' 
 
 ^^ Nay, 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. 
 
190 
 
 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 gypsy-folk. 
 
O 5 
 
 191 
 
 Or him that wicked Pony's carried 
 To the dark cave, the goblin's 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 shar6. 
 
 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. 
 
192 
 
 And now she's at the Doctor's door, 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap ; 
 The Doctor at the casement shows 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and dose ! 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 ^' Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny!'^ 
 ^^ Tm here, what is^t you want with me?'^ 
 ^^ Oh Sir ! you know Vm 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 !'' 
 
193 
 
 Slie 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 shocked 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! Fm almost threescore; 
 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 sounds are flowing, 
 The grass you almost hear it growing, 
 You hear it now if e'er you can. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 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 past, 
 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 overload 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.'^ 
 
19-5 
 
 Then up she spnngs, as if on viaiigs ; 
 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* 
 
 O 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,/ ;, 
 
 o 2 
 
196 
 
 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: 
 
 O gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to him befel, 
 
 He surely met with strange adventures. 
 
 O 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 ? 
 
197 
 
 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 waterfall 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. - 
 
198 
 
 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 overturned 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* 
 
199 
 
 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 ; 
 YouVe 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 waterfall. 
 
 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. 
 
200 
 
 The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale ; 
 And who is she, betimes 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 tossed 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. 
 
201 
 
 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 tive. 
 
 / 
 
202 
 
 And thus, to Betty's question, he 
 
 Made answer, like a Traveller bold, 
 
 (His very w^ords 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 w^as all his travel's story. 
 
203 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 MICHAEL, 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM, 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. 
 But, courage ! for beside that boisterous Brook 
 The mountains have all opened out themselves, 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 No habitation there is seen ; but such 
 As journey thither find themselves alone 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 But for one object which you might pass by, 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 
204 
 
 There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 
 
 And to that place a story appertains, 
 
 Which, though it be ungarnished with events, 
 
 Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first, 
 
 The earliest of those tales that spake to me 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 
 
 Whom I already loved ; — not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natural objects led me on to feel 
 
 For passions that were not my own, and think 
 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life* 
 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the ^ake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills 
 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 
205 
 
 UPON the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
 Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
 And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence he had learned the meaning of all winds, 
 Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes, 
 When others heeded not. He heard the South 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills* 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 ^^ The winds are now devising work for me !'^ 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm — that drives 
 The Traveller to a shelter — summoned him 
 Up to the mountains: he had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
 That came to him and left him on the heights. 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 
206 
 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 
 That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks 
 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 
 The common air ; the hills, which he so oft 
 
 Had cHmbed w ith vigorous steps ; which had impressed 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 
 
 Which like a book preserved the memory 
 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, 
 
 So grateful in themselves, the certainty 
 
 Of honourable gain ; these fields, these hills. 
 
 Which were his living Being, even more 
 
 Than his own blood — what could they less ? had laid 
 
 Strong hold on his affections, w ere to him 
 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been passed in singleness. 
 
 His Helpmate was a comely Matron, old — 
 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 
 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels slie had 
 
207 
 
 Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, 
 
 That small for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
 
 It was because the other was at work. 
 
 The Pair had but one Inmate in their house. 
 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 
 When Michael telling o'er his years began 
 
 To deem that he was old, — in Shepherd's phrase, 
 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
 
 With two brave Sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
 
 The one of an inestimable w orth, 
 
 Made all their Household. I may truly say, 
 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 
 Tor endless industry. When day was gone, 
 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then 
 
 Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
 
 Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 
 
 Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) 
 
 And his old Father both betook themselves 
 
 To such convenient work as might employ 
 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card 
 
208 
 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the cieling, by the chimney's edge^ 
 
 Which in our ancient uncouth country style 
 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 
 Large space beneath^ as duly as the light 
 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp ; 
 
 An aged utensil, which had performed 
 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 
 Early at evening did it burn and late, 
 
 Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours, 
 
 Which going by from year to year had found 
 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps 
 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes. 
 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 
 And now, when Luke w^as in his eighteenth year, 
 
 There by the light of this old Lamp they sat. 
 
 Father and Son, while late into the night 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 
 This Light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 
209 
 
 And was a public Symbol of the life 
 
 The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced. 
 
 Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, North and South, 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise; 
 
 And Westward to the village near the Lake ; 
 
 And from this constant light^ so regular 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale. 
 
 Both old and young, was named The Evening Star. 
 
 Thus living on through such a length of years, 
 The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have ]oved his Help-mate; but to MichaePs heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Effect which might perhaps have been produced 
 By that instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all — 
 Or that a child, more than all other gifts. 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 From such, and other causes, to the thoughts 
 Of the old Man his only Son was now 
 
 VOL. 1. P 
 
210 
 
 The dearest object t^t he knew on earth. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 His Heart and his Heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For dalliance and delight, as is the use 
 Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
 His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love. 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
 To have the young one in his sight, when he 
 Had work by his own door, or when he sat 
 With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool. 
 Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door 
 Stood, — and, from its enormous breadth of shade 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun. 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tree *, a name which yet it bears* 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 
 
 * Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. 
 
211 
 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe^ 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up 
 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 
 Two steady roses that were five years old. 
 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 
 Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, 
 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt 
 
 He as a Watchman oftentimes was placed 
 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
 
 And, to his office prematurely called. 
 
 There stood the Urchin, as you will divine. 
 
 Something between a hindrance and a help ; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe. 
 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
 
 Though nought was left undone which staff or voice, 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. 
 
 p2 
 
212 
 
 But soon as Luke^ full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts, and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways. 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 
 Feelings and emanations, — things which were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
 And that the Old Man's heart seemed born again. 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up : 
 And now when he had reached his eighteenth year, 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple Household lived 
 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 
 In surety for his Brother's Son, a man 
 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means, — 
 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 
 Had pressed upon him, — and old Michael now 
 
213 
 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 
 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 
 Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim, 
 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 
 As soon as he had gathered so much strength 
 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 
 It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell 
 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again, 
 
 And his heart failed him. '^ Isabel,'^ said he, 
 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news^ 
 
 ^' I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 
 
 Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think 
 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 
 Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself 
 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I, 
 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 
 To my own family. An evil Man 
 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 
 Were false to us ; and, if he were not false. 
 
214 
 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us^ Isabel; the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
 Another Kinsman — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go. 
 And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 May come again to us. If here he stay. 
 What can be done ? Where every one is poor 
 What can be gained ?'' At this the old man paused. 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There's Richard Bateman, thought sl>e to herself. 
 He was a Parish- boy — at the Church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, ^ 
 And halfpennies, wiierewith the neighbours bought 
 A Basket, which they filled with Pedlar's wares ; 
 
215 
 
 And, with this Basket on his arm, the Lad 
 Went up to London, found a Master there, 
 Who out of many chose the trusty Boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich. 
 And left estates and monies to the poor. 
 And at his birth-place built a Chapel floored 
 With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort. 
 Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. The Old Man was glad. 
 And thus resumed : — ^' Well, Isabel ! this scheme 
 These two days has been meat and drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
 Were younger, — but this hope is a good hope. 
 — Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
 — If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.'^ 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 
216 
 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Thmgs needful for the journey of her Son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her w ork : for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the two last nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
 And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
 We have no other child but thee to lose, 
 None to remember — do not go away, 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die/^ 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund voice; 
 And Isabel, when she had told ner fears. 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 Next morning Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 The expected letter from their Kinsman came, 
 
217 
 
 With kind assurances that he M^ould do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy; 
 To which requests were added that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on Eno-ljsh Land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the Old Man said, 
 ^' He shall depart to-morrow/' To this word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 
 In that deep Valley, Michael had designed 
 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 
 For this same purpose he had gathered up 
 
 A heap of stones, which by the Streamlet's edge 
 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walked ; 
 
218 
 
 And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 
 
 And thus the Old Man spake to him : — ^^ My Son, 
 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy* 
 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 
 Of our two histories ; \ will do thee good 
 
 When thou art from me, even if I should speak 
 
 Of things thou canst not know of. After thou 
 
 First cam^st into the world — as it befalls 
 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 
 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 
 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 
 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 
 
 And in the open fields my life w as passed 
 
 And on the mountains, else I think that thou 
 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Fathers knees. 
 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills. 
 
219 
 
 As well thou know'st, in us the old and young 
 
 Have played together, nor with me didst thou 
 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know/^ 
 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
 
 He sobbed aloud* The Old Man grasped his hand, 
 
 And said, '' Nay, do not take it so — I see 
 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 
 Remember them who loved m6 in my youth. 
 
 Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 
 
 As all their Forefathers had done j and when 
 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mold. 
 
 I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived. 
 
 But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 
 And see so little gain from sixty years. 
 
 These fields were burthened when they came to me ; 
 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 
 
5220 
 
 And till these three weeks past the land was free. 
 
 • — It looks as if it never could endure 
 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 
 That thou shouldst go/' At this the Old Man paus'd ; 
 
 Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood, 
 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
 
 ^' This was a work for us ; and now, my Son, 
 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one Stone — 
 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine ow n hands. 
 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope : — we both may live 
 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 
 I still am strong and stout ; — do thou thy part, 
 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee ; 
 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 
 All works which I was wont to do alone, 
 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee. Boy! 
 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 
 With many hopes — It should be so — Yes — yes — 
 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 
 
 Only by links of love; when thou art gone, 
 
221 
 
 What will be left to us !— -But, I forget 
 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone; 
 
 As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 
 And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts. 
 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 
 And all temptation, Luke, 1 pray that thou 
 
 Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 
 Bestir them hi good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 
 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 
 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 ^Twill be between us But, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave/' 
 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down, 
 
 And, as his Father had requested, laid 
 
 The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 
 
 The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart 
 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
 
 And to the House together they returned. 
 
 — Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace. 
 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 
 Began his journey, and when he had reached 
 The public Way, he put on a bold face ; 
 And all the Neighbours as he passed their doors 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers^ 
 That followed him till he was out of sight- 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
 
 Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
 
 " The prettiest letters that were ever seen/^ 
 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 
 So, many months passed on : and once again 
 
 The Shepherd went about his daily w^ork 
 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now 
 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 
 He to that valley took his w^ay, and there 
 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began 
 
 To slacken in his duty ; and at length 
 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
223 
 
 Tliere is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would break the heart : — Old Michael found it so. 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the Old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy new^s. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and still looked up upon the sun, 
 And listened to the wind ; and as before 
 Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep, 
 And for the land his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow Dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 For the Old Man— and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen 
 Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 
224 
 
 The length of full seven years from time to time 
 
 He at the buikling of this Sheep-fold wrought^ 
 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 
 Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 
 
 Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. 
 
 The Cottage which was named The Evening Star 
 
 Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood : — yet the Oak is left 
 That grew beside their Door ; and the remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head GhylL 
 
225 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 LAODJMU. 
 
 ^^ With sacrifice^ before the rising mom 
 Performed, my slaughtered Lord have I required ; 
 And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, 
 Him of the infernal Gods have I desired : 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove^ restore !'' 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 
 With faith, the suppliant heav'n-ward lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud, 
 
 Her countenance brightens,— and her eye expands, 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows, 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 O terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy! 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
 His vital presence — his corporeal mold ? 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ! 
 And a God leads him — winged Mercury ! 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
2:26 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 
 
 That calms all fear, " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 
 
 Laodamia, that at Jove's command 
 
 Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 
 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face/' 
 
 Forth sprang the impassion'd Queen her Lord to cksp ; 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed; 
 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 ^^ Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice : 
 This is our Palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on w ill rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the Gods bestowed 
 This precious boon, — and blest a sad Abode.'' 
 
 ^' Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect: — Spectre though I be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gaiOe 
 
227 
 
 Tliou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touch'd the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat did not withhold : 
 
 A generous cause a Victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 
 A self-devoted Chief — by Hector slain." 
 
 *' Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
 That then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore : 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art— 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 That thou shouldst cheat the malice of the grave ; 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 
 
 No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this : 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride !" 
 • Jove frowned in heaven ; the conscious Parcai threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 ^^ This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
 Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 And surely as they vanish. — Earth destroys 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains : 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult of the soul ; 
 The fervor — not the impotence of love. 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — '* 
 
 ^^ All, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated Corse, 
 Given back to dwell on earth in beauty ^s bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. 
 And -^son stood a Youth mid youthful peers. 
 
 The Gods to us are merciful — and they 
 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 
 Of magic potent over sun and star 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 
 And though his favorite seat be feeble Woman^s breast. 
 
229 
 
 But if thou go'st, I follow — '^ '^ Peace!'' he said- 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 Elysian beauty — melancholy grace — 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place^ 
 
 He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; 
 Spake, as a witness, of a second birth 
 For all that is most perfect upon earth : 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 
 
 Climes which the Sun, who sheds the brightest d:ry 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 
 That privilege by virtue. — '' 111/' said he, 
 " The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry *' 
 
 * Note. — For this feature in the character of Protesilaiis. see the I phi- 
 genia in Aulis of Euripides. 
 
230 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vahi delight 
 While tears were thy best pastime, — day and night : 
 
 And while my youthful peers, before my eyes, 
 (Each Hero following his peculiar bent) 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprize 
 By martial sports,— or, seated in the tent, 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
 What time the Fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 
 
 The wish'd-for wind was given : — I then revolved 
 Our future course, upon the silent sea ; 
 . And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that thiged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ; 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
 
 And on the joys we sliared in mortal life, — 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains — flowers; 
 
 My new-planned Cities, and unfinished Towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
 '^ Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die V^ — = 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 
1 
 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought^ 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought* 
 
 And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow; 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 
 
 Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend 
 Towards a higher object : — Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for this end. 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled ; her bondage prov 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love,' 
 
 7> 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain : 
 
 The hours are past, too brief had they been years j 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day, 
 
 He through the portal takes his silent way— 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay 
 
 ~\ 
 
232 
 
 Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved ! 
 Her, who, in reason's spite, yet without crime, 
 Was in a trance of passion thus removed ; 
 Delivered from the galling yoke of time 
 And these frail elements — to gather flowers 
 
 Of blissful (juiet mid unfading bowers. 
 
 » 
 
 Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and overthrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
 ^ A constant interchange of growth and blight! 
 
 * For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural 
 History, Lib. l6. Cap. 44. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF THE FANCY. 
 
I. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 tt jj^y * diyiYi^ gj^iii taught me this, 
 That from every thing I saw 
 I could some instruction draw, 
 And raise pleasure to the height 
 Through the meanest objects sight. 
 By the murmur of a spring 
 Or the least hough^s rustelling; 
 By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady hush or tree ; 
 She could more infuse in me 
 Than all Natures beauties can 
 In some other wiser man," 
 
 G. Withers, 
 
 Xn youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill, in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy j 
 But now my own delights I make,^ — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly Nature's love partake 
 
 Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 * His Muse. 
 
236 
 
 When soothed a while by milder airs, 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly shades his few grey hair3 ; 
 
 Spring cannot shun thee ; 
 Whole summer fields are thine by right j 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greef st the Traveller in the lane ; 
 If welcomed once thou count^st it gain ; 
 
 Thou art not daunted, 
 Nor car'st if thou be set at naught : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be Violets in their secret mews 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
 Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews 
 Her head impearling ; 
 
237 
 
 Thou liv^st with less ambitious aim^ 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 The Poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly^ 
 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Near the green holly, 
 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 
 He need but look about, and there 
 
 Thou art ! — a Friend at hand, to scare 
 
 » 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower. 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour. 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension; * 
 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
^38 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life, our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 When, smitten by the morning ray, 
 
 I see thee rise alert and gay, 
 
 Then, cheerful Flow^er ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness : 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt. 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 To thee am ow ing ; 
 
239 
 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how nor whence, 
 Nor whither jjoing. 
 
 Child of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy course, bold lover of the sun. 
 And cheerful when the day's begun 
 
 As morning Leveret, 
 *Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
 Dear shalt thou be to future men 
 As in old time ; — thou not in vain, 
 
 Art Nature's Favorite, 
 
 * See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid 
 to this flower. 
 
240 
 
 11 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
 Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound : 
 Then — all at once the air was still, 
 And showers of hailstones pattered round. 
 Where leafless Oaks towered high above^ * 
 I sat within an undergrove 
 Of tallest hollies, tall and green ; 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 With withered leaves is covered o'er^ 
 You could not lay a hair between : 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 But see ! where'er the hailstones drop 
 The withered leaves all skip and hop, 
 There's not a breeze — no breath of air — - 
 Yet herC; and there, and every where 
 
241 
 
 Along the floor, beneath the shade 
 By those embowering hollies made, 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring 
 As if with pipes and music rare 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were there^ 
 And all those leaves in festive glee 
 Were dancing; to the minstrelsy. 
 
 &^ 
 
 you I* ^ 
 
242 
 
 III. 
 
 ^^ With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky, 
 How silently, and with how wan a face * !^' 
 Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high 
 Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race ! 
 Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 
 Which they would stifle, move at such a pace ! 
 The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chase. 
 Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
 The power of Merlin, Goddess ! this should be : 
 And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven^ 
 Should sally forth to keep thee company. 
 What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driven 
 Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee ! 
 But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be given, 
 Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 
 
 * From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney. 
 
24 
 
 o 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET, 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of springes unclouded weather, 
 In tliis sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my Orchard-seat ! 
 And Flowers and Birds once more to greet, 
 
 My last year's Friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest Guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 
 In joy of voice and pinion. 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day. 
 Dost lead the revels of the May, 
 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 R 2 
 
244 
 
 While Birds^ and Butterflies^ and Flowers 
 Make all one Band of Paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employment ; 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care, 
 Too bless'd with any one to pair. 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Upon yon tuft of hazel trees , 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! where the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 While thus befoie my eyes he gleams, 
 A Brother of the Leaves he seems ; 
 When in a moment forth he teems 
 
 His little song in gushes : 
 As if it pleased him to disdain 
 And mock the Form which he did feisn. 
 While he was dancing with the train 
 
 Of Leaves among the bushes. 
 
'245 
 
 v. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELJNDINEr 
 
 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there's a sun that sets 
 Primroses will have their glory; 
 Long as there are Violets^ 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There's a flower that shall be mine^ 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I'm as great as they, I trow, 
 Since the dav I found thee out, 
 Little flower ! — I'll make a stir 
 Like a sreat Astronomer. 
 
 ^ ( oninion Pilewort. 
 
246 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold^ and lavish of thyself, 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 ^Twas a face 1 did not know ; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush. 
 In the time before the Thrush 
 Has a thought about it's nest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a call. 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude ; 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 That they all are wanton Wooers ; 
 But the thrifty Cottager, 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 Joys to spy thee near her home. 
 Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 
 
247 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighhourhood. 
 Thou dost shew thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane — there^s not a place. 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 111 befal the yellow Flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be seen. 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine! 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 Scorned and slighted upon earth ! 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 Singing at my heart's command, 
 In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 
 I will sing, as doth behove, 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
. 248 
 
 VI. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 February last my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had^ 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago. 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 Whosoe'er the man might be, 
 V\ ho the first with pointed rays, 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 Set the Sisn-board in a blaze. 
 When the risen sun he painted, 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
249 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 News of winter's vanishing, 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mold 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd^s fold ! 
 With the proudest Thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 Sighed to think, I read a book 
 Only read perhaps by me ; 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 While the patient Primrose sits 
 Like a Beggar in the cold. 
 Thou, a Flower of wiser wits, 
 Siipp'st into thy sheltered hold ; 
 Bright as any of the train 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
250 
 
 Thou art not beyond the moon, 
 But a thing ^' beneath our shoon .^ 
 Let, as old Magellan did, 
 Others roam about the sea; 
 Build who will a pyramid ; 
 Praise it is enough for me, 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
251 
 
 VIT. 
 
 THE 
 
 WATERFALL 
 
 AND 
 
 THE EGLANTINE. 
 
 ^^ BegonE;^ thou fond presumptuous Elf/' 
 Exclaimed a thundering Voice, 
 ^^ Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 Between me and my choice !" 
 A falhng Water swoln with snows 
 Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, 
 That, all bespattered with his foam, 
 And dancing high, and dancing low, 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
252 
 
 '^ Dost thou presume ryy course to block: 
 
 Off, off! or, puny Thing! 
 
 ril hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling/^ 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong ; 
 
 The patient Briar suffered long, 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past ; 
 
 But seeing no relief, at last 
 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 ^^ Ah !*^ said the Briar, " blame me not ; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife ? 
 
 We who in this, our natal spot, 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirred me on my rocky bed — 
 
 What pleasure through my veins you spread ! 
 
 The Summer long from day to day 
 
 My leaves you freshened and bedewed j 
 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 
 1'hat did your cares repay. 
 
Q53 
 
 " When Spring came on with bud and bell; 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 
 That gentle days w^ere nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours 
 
 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone, 
 
 The Linnet lodged, and for us two 
 Chaunted his pretty songs, when You 
 Had little voice or none, 
 
 ^^ But now proud thoughts are in your breast- 
 
 What grief is mine you see. 
 
 Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be ! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 
 With which I in my humble way 
 
 Would deck you many a winter's day, 
 
 A happy Eglantine !'' 
 
254 
 
 What more he said I cannot telL 
 The Torrent thundered down the dell 
 With unabating haste ; 
 I listened, nor aught else could hear ; 
 The Briar quaked — and much I fear 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
 / 
 
255 
 
 VIIL 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills ; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One winter's night, when through the Trees 
 
 The wind was thundering, on his knees 
 
 His youngest born did Andrew hold ; 
 
 And while the rest, a ruddy quire, 
 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 
 This Tale the Shepherd told. 
 
256 
 
 I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown^ 
 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 
 The time was March^ a cheerful noon — 
 
 The thaw-wind with the breath of June 
 
 Breathed gently from the warm South-west ; 
 
 When, in a voice sedate wdth age, 
 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage. 
 
 His neighbour thus addressed : 
 
 ^' Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, 
 
 Along this mountain's edge, 
 
 The Frost hath wrought both night and day, 
 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 
 What trouble surely will be bred ; 
 
 Last night I heard a crash — 'tis true^ 
 
 The splinters took another road — 
 
 I see them yonder — what a load 
 
 For such a Thing as you ! 
 
2 
 
 'J i 
 
 You are preparing as before 
 
 To deck your slender shape; 
 
 And yet, just three years back — no more — 
 
 You had a strange escape, 
 
 ■ 
 
 Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke ; 
 It came, you know, with fire and smoke, 
 And hitherw^ard it bent its way : 
 This ponderous Block was caught by me. 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 Tis hanging to this day ! 
 
 The Thing had better been asleep. 
 
 Whatever thing it were, 
 
 Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, 
 
 That first did plant you there. 
 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 
 The little witless Shepherd-boy 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower; 
 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon. 
 
 Both you and he. Heaven knows how soon 
 
 Will perish in one hour- 
 
 VOL. I 
 
258 
 
 From me this friendly warning take^^ — 
 The Broom began to doze, 
 'And thus to keep herself awake 
 Did gently interpose : 
 ^^ My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 That it is true, and more than true, 
 I know, and I have known it long ; 
 Frail is the bond, by which we hold 
 Our being, be we )oung or old. 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. ? 
 
 Disasters, do the best we can. 
 
 Will reach both great and small ; 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man. 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to roam r' 
 
 This spot is my paternal home. 
 
 It is my pleasant Heritage ; 
 
 My Father many a happy year 
 
 Here spread his careless blossoms, here 
 
 Attained a good old age. 
 
259 
 
 / 
 
 Even such as his may be my lot* 
 
 What cause have I to haunt 
 
 My heart with terrors ? Am I not 
 
 In truth a favoured plant ! 
 
 On me such bounty Summer pours 
 
 That I am covered o'er with flowers ; 
 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 That You might look at me and say, 
 
 This Plant can never die. 
 
 The Butterfly, all green and gold, 
 
 To me hath often flown, 
 
 Here in my Blossoms to behold 
 
 Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 When grass is chill with rain or dew^^ 
 
 Beneath my shade the mother Ewe 
 
 Lies with her infant Lamb ; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make, 
 
 40 
 
 And the sweet Joy, which they partake, 
 It is a joy to me/^ 
 
 ■?5 At 
 
260 
 
 Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 Their journey had renewed. 
 But in the branches of the Oak 
 Two Ravens now began to croak 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air ; 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 That instant brought two stripling Bees 
 To rest and murmur there. 
 
 One night, my Children ! from the North 
 
 There came a furious blast ; 
 
 At break of day I ventured forth. 
 
 And near the CliflFI passed. 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak 
 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke. 
 
 And whirled and whirled him far away ; 
 
 And in one hospitable Cleft 
 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 
 To live for many a day. 
 
261 
 
 IX. 
 
 The REDBREAST and the BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best, 
 The pious Bird with the scarlet breast, 
 
 Our little English Robin ; 
 The Bird that conies about our doors 
 When Autumn winds are sobbing ? 
 Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 
 
 Their Thomas in Finland, 
 
 And Russia far inland ? 
 The Bird, whom by some name op other 
 All men who know thee call their Brother, 
 The Darling of Children and men ? 
 ^ Could Father Adam open his eyes, 
 And see this sight beneath the skies. 
 He'd wish to close them again. 
 
 If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 
 Hither his flight he would bend ; 
 
 * See Paradise Lost, Book XI, where Adam points out to Eve the 
 ominous sign of the Eagle chasing ** two Birds of gayest plume," and 
 the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy. 
 
262 
 
 And find his way to me 
 Under the branches of the tree : 
 In and out, he darts about ; 
 Can this be the Bird, to man so good, 
 That, after their bewildering, 
 Did cover with leaves the little children, 
 So painfully in the w^ood ? 
 
 What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 
 
 A beautiful Creature, 
 That is gentle by nature ? 
 Beneath the summer sky 
 From flower to flower let him fly ; 
 'Tis all that he wishes to do. 
 The Cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 
 He is the Friend of our summer gladness : 
 What hinders, then, that ye should be 
 Playmates in the sunny weather. 
 And fly about in the air together! 
 His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 
 A crimson as bright as thine own : 
 If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 
 O pious Bird ! whom Man loves best. 
 Love him, or leave him alone ] 
 
^63 
 
 X. 
 
 TO THE DAISYS. 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be^ 
 
 Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee, 
 
 For thou art worthy, 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with that homely face. 
 And yet with something of a grace, 
 
 Which Love makes for thee! 
 
 Oft do I sit by thee at ease, 
 And weave a web of simiHes, 
 Loose types of Things through all degrees, 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 
 * The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in 
 composing the one which stands first in this Class. 
 
264 
 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A Nun demure, of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly Maiden, of Love's Court, 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A Queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A Starveling in a scanty vest; 
 Are all, as seem to suit thee best. 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A^ little Cyclops, with one eye 
 
 Staring to threaten and defy, 
 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over. 
 The shape will vanish, and behold ! 
 A silver Shield with boss of gold. 
 That spreads itself^ some Faery bold 
 
 lo fight to cover. 
 
265 
 
 1 see thee glittering from afar; — 
 And then thou art a pretty Star ; 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star^ wdth glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
 May peace come never to his nest, 
 
 Who shall reprdve thee ! 
 
 Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 
 Sweet silent Creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
266 
 
 XL 
 
 20 THE SAME FLOWER. 
 
 Bright flower, whose home is every where! 
 A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, 
 
 And all the long year through the heir 
 
 Of joy or sorrow, 
 Methinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity, 
 Given to no other Flower I see 
 
 The forest thorough ! 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest ? 
 
 A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 
 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason, 
 And Thou vvould'st teach him how to find 
 A shelter under every wind, 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season r 
 
267 
 
 ■^ 
 
 Thou wanderest the wide world about, 
 Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
 With friends to greet thee, or without. 
 
 Yet pleased and willing ; 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
 And all things suffering from all, 
 Thy function apostolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. 
 
268 
 
 XII. 
 
 TO J SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing 
 With all the heavens about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary. 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 Up with me, up with me, high and high, 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky! 
 Joyous as Morning, 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 
269 
 
 Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest : 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
 To be such a Traveller as I. 
 
 Happy, happy Liver ! 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain River, 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Hearing thee, or else some other. 
 As merry a Brother, 
 1 on the earth will go plodding on. 
 By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done. 
 
270 
 
 XITL 
 
 TO A SEXTON, 
 
 Let thy wheel-barrow alone- 
 
 Wherefore, Sexton, piling still 
 
 In thy Bone-house bone on bone : 
 
 ^Tis already like a hill 
 
 In a field of battle made, 
 
 Where three thousand skulls are laid* 
 
 — These died in peace each with the other. 
 
 Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. 
 
 Mark the spot to which I point ! 
 From this platform eight feet square 
 Take not even a finger-joint : 
 Andrew's whole fire-side is there. 
 Here, alone, before thine eyes^ 
 Simon's sickly Daughter lies, 
 From weakness, now, and pain defended. 
 Whom he twenty winters tended. 
 
271 
 
 Look but at the gardener's pikie — 
 
 How he glories, when he sees 
 
 Roses, Lihes, side by side, 
 
 Violets in families ! 
 
 By the heart of Man, his tears. 
 
 By his hopes and by his fears. 
 
 Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden 
 
 Of a far superior garden. 
 
 Thus then, each to other dear. 
 
 Let them all in quiet lie, 
 
 / 
 Andrew there and Susan here, 
 
 Neighbours in mortality. 
 
 And, should I live through sun and rain 
 
 Seven widowed years without my Jane, 
 
 O Sexton, do not then remove her, 
 
 Let one grave hold the LovM and Lover ! 
 
S72 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Who fiincied what a pretty sight 
 This Rock would be if edged around 
 With living Snowdrops ? circlet bright ! 
 How glorious to this Orchard -ground ! 
 Who loved the little Rock, and set 
 Upon its Head this Coronet ? 
 
 Was it the humour of a Child ? 
 Or rather of some love-sick Maid, 
 Whose brows, the day that she was styled 
 The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed ? 
 Of Man mature, or Matron sage ? 
 Or Old-man toying with his age ? 
 
 I asked — 'twas whispered, The device 
 
 To each or all might well belong : 
 
 It is the Spirit of Paradise 
 
 That prompts such work, a Spirit strong; 
 
 That gives to all the self-same bent 
 
 Where life is wise and innocent. 
 
273 
 
 XV. 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 WANDERING JEW. 
 
 Though the torrents from their fountains 
 Roar down many a craggy steep. 
 Yet they find among the mountains 
 Resting-places calm and deep. 
 
 Though, as if with eagle pinion 
 O^er the rocks the Chamois roam, 
 Yet he has some small dominion 
 Wherp he feels himself at home. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less he loves his haven 
 In the bosom of the cliff. 
 
 VOL. le T 
 
§74 
 
 Though the Sea-horse in the ocean 
 Own no dear domestic cave ; 
 Yet he slumbers without motion 
 On the calm and silent wave. 
 
 Day and night my toils redouble ! 
 Never nearer to the goal ; 
 Never— never does the trouble 
 Of the Wanderer leave my soul. 
 
275 
 
 XVL 
 
 THE SEVEN SISTERS, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE< 
 
 Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, 
 All Children of one Mother : 
 I could not say in one short day 
 What love they bore each other. 
 A Garland of seven Lilies wrought ! 
 Seven Sisters that together dwell ; 
 But he, bold Knight as ever fought, 
 Their Father, took of them no thought, 
 He loved the Wars so well. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie ! 
 
 T 2 
 
276 
 
 Fresh blows the wind^ a western wind, 
 
 And from the shores of Erin, 
 
 Across the wave, a Rover brave 
 
 To Binnorie is steering : 
 
 Right onward to the Scottish strand 
 
 The gallant ship is borne; 
 
 The Warriors leap upon the land, 
 
 And hark! the Leader of the Band 
 
 Hath blown his bugle horn. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Beside a Grotto of their own. 
 With boughs above them closing, 
 The Seven are laid, and in the shade 
 They lie like Fawns reposing. 
 But now, upstarting with affright 
 At noise of Man and Steed, 
 Away they fly to left to right — 
 Of your fair household, Father Knight, 
 Methinks you take small heed ! 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 The Sohtude of Binnorie, 
 
277 
 
 Away the seven fair Campbells fly, 
 
 And, over Hill and Hollow, 
 
 With menace proud, and insult loud. 
 
 The youthful Rovers follow. 
 
 Cried they, ^' Your Father loves to roam 
 
 Enough for him to find 
 
 The empty House when he comes home ; 
 
 For us your yellow ringlets comb, 
 
 For us be fair and kind !" 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
 Some close behind, some side by side, 
 
 Like clouds in stormy weather. 
 
 They run, and cry, ^^ Nay let us die. 
 
 And let us die together/' 
 
 A Lake was near ; the shore was steep ; 
 
 There never foot had been ; 
 
 They ran, and with a desperate leap 
 
 Together plunged into the deep, 
 
 Nor ever more were seen. 
 
 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
278 
 
 The Stream that flows out of the Lake^ 
 As through the glen it rambles, 
 Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, 
 For those seven lovely Campbells. 
 Seven little Islands, green and bare, 
 Have risen from out the deep : 
 The Fishers say, those Sisters fair 
 By Faeries are all buried there. 
 And there together sleep. 
 Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
 The Solitude of Binnorie. 
 
279 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " '^Pleasure is spread through the earth 
 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall fmdj^ 
 
 By their floating Mill, 
 
 Which lies dead and still, 
 Behold yon Prisoners three ! 
 
 The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames; 
 The Platform is small, but there's room for them all ; 
 And they Ve dancing merrily. 
 
 From the shore come the notes 
 
 To their Mill where it floats, 
 To their House and their Mill tethered fast ; 
 To the small wooden Isle where their work to beguile 
 They from morning to even take whatever is given; — 
 And many a blithe day they have past. 
 
 In sight of the Spires 
 
 All alive with the fires 
 Of the Sun going down to his rest, 
 In the broad open eye of the solitary sky. 
 They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free, 
 While they dance on the calm river's breast. 
 
280 
 
 Man and Maidens wheel^ 
 
 They themselves make the Reel, 
 And their Music^s a prey which they seize ; 
 It plays not for them, — what matter ! 'tis theirs ^ 
 And if they had care it has scattered their cares. 
 While they dance, crying, ^^ Long as ye please T 
 
 They dance not for me. 
 
 Yet mine is their glee ! 
 Thus pleasure is spread through the earth 
 In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find ; 
 Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, 
 Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 
 
 The Showers of the Spring 
 
 Rouze the Birds, and they sing ; 
 If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight. 
 Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss; 
 Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother ; 
 They are happy, for that is their right ! 
 
281 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE KITTEN, 
 
 AND 
 
 THE FALLING LEAVES. 
 
 That way look, my Infant, lo! 
 What a pretty baby show ! 
 See the Kitten on the Wall, 
 Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
 Withered leaves — one — two — and threte 
 From the lofty Elder-tree ! 
 Through the calm and frosty air 
 Of this morning bright and fair 
 Eddying round and round they sink 
 Softly, slowly: one might think, 
 From the motions that are made. 
 Every little leaf conveyed 
 Sylph or Faery hither tending, — 
 To this low er world descending, 
 Each invisible and mute, 
 In his wavering parachute. 
 
282 
 
 « 
 
 But the Kitten, how she starts, 
 
 Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 
 First at one, and then its fellow 
 Just as light and just as yellow; 
 There are many now — now one — 
 Now they stop ; and there are none — 
 What intenseness of desire 
 In her upward eye of fire ! 
 With a tiger-leap half way 
 Now she meets the coming prey. 
 Lets it go as fast, and then 
 Has it in her power again : 
 Now she works with three or four, 
 Like an Indian Conjuror ; 
 Quick as he in feats of art. 
 Far beyond in joy of heart- 
 Were her antics played in the eye 
 
 Of a thousand Standers-by, 
 Clapping hands with shout and stare, 
 What would little Tabby care 
 For the plaudits of the Crowd ? 
 Over happy to be proud, 
 Over wealthy in the treasure 
 Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 
 
28i> 
 
 ^Tis a pretty Baby-treat ; 
 Nor, I deem, for me unmeet : 
 Here, for neither Babe nor me, 
 Other Play-mate can I see. 
 Of the countless livmg things. 
 That with stir of feet and wings, 
 (In the sun or under shade 
 Upon bough or grassy blade) 
 And with busy revellings. 
 Chirp and song, and murmurings. 
 Made this Orchard's narrow space. 
 And this Vale so blithe a place ; 
 Multitudes are swept away 
 Never more to breathe the day : 
 Some are sleeping ; some in Bands 
 Travelled into distant Lands ; 
 Others slunk to moor and wood, 
 Far from human neighbourhood ; 
 And, among the Kinds that keep 
 With us closer fellowship. 
 With us openly abide. 
 All have laid their mirth aside, 
 — Where is he that giddy Sprite, 
 Blue-cap, with his colours bright, 
 
284 
 
 Who was blest as bird could be^ 
 
 Feeding in the apple-tree ; 
 
 Made such wanton spoil and rout^ 
 
 Turning blossoms inside out ; 
 
 Hung with head towards the ground^ 
 
 Fluttered, perched, into a round 
 
 Bound himself, and then unbound ; 
 
 Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
 
 Prettiest Tumbler ever seen ! 
 
 Light of heart, and light of limb, 
 
 What is now become of Him ? 
 
 Lambs, that through the mountains went 
 
 Frisking, bleating merriment. 
 
 When the year was in its prime, 
 
 They are sobered by this time. 
 
 If you look to vale or hill, 
 
 If you listen, all is still. 
 
 Save a little neighbouring Rill, 
 
 That from out the rocky ground 
 
 Strikes a solitary sound. 
 
 Vainly glitters hill and plain. 
 
 And the air is calm in vain ; 
 
 Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
 
 Of a sky serene and pure ; 
 
285 
 
 Creature none can she decoy 
 Into open sign of joy : 
 Is it that they have a fear 
 Of the dreary season near ? 
 Or that other pleasures be 
 Sweeter even than gaiety ? 
 
 Yet, whatever enjoyments dwell 
 In the impenetrable cell 
 Of the silent heart which Nature 
 Furnishes to every Creature ; 
 Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
 Too sedate for outward show, 
 Such a light of gladness breaks, 
 Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
 Spreads with such a living grace 
 O'er my little Laura's face ; 
 Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
 Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. 
 That almost I could repine 
 That your transports are not mine, 
 That I do not wholly fare 
 Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair ! 
 
286 
 
 And I will have my careless season 
 
 Spite of melancholy reason, 
 
 Will walk through life in such a way 
 
 That, when time brings on decay, 
 
 Now and then I may possess 
 
 Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
 
 — Pleased by any random toy; 
 
 By a Kitten's busy joy, 
 
 Or an Infanf s laiighing eye 
 
 Sharing in the ecstasy ; 
 
 I would fare like that or this, 
 
 Find my wisdom in my bliss ; 
 
 Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
 
 And have faculties to take. 
 
 Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
 
 Matter for a jocund thought; 
 
 Spite of care, and spite of grief. 
 
 To gambol with Life's falling Leaf, 
 
287 
 
 XIX. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 ■r 
 
 Between two sister moorland rills 
 
 There is a spot that seems to lie 
 
 Sacred to flowVets of the hills, 
 
 And sacred to the sky. 
 
 And in this smooth and open dell 
 
 There is a tempest-stricken tree ; 
 
 A corner-stone by lightning cut, 
 
 The last stone of a cottage hut; 
 
 And in this dell you see 
 
 A thing no storm can e'er destroy, 
 
 The shadow of a Danish Boy. 
 
288 
 
 In clouds above^ the Lark is heard; — 
 He sings his bhthest and his best ; 
 But in this lonesome nook the Bird 
 
 Did never build his nest. 
 
 No Beast, no Bird hath here his home ; 
 
 The Bees borne on the breezy air 
 
 Pass high above those fragrant bells 
 
 To other flowers, to other dells, 
 
 Nor ever linger there. 
 
 The Danish Boy walks here alone : 
 
 The lovely dell is all his own. 
 
 A spirit of noon-day is he, 
 
 He seems a Form of flesh and blood ; 
 
 Nor piping Shepherd shall he be, 
 
 Nor Herd-boy of the wood. 
 
 A regal vest of fur he wears, 
 
 In colour like a raven's wing; 
 
 It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; 
 
 But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in Spring ; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace. 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
289 
 
 • — 
 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung : 
 He rests the harp upon his knee ; 
 And there in a forgotten tongue 
 He warbles melody. 
 Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills 
 He is the darling and the joy ; 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain ponies prick their ears, 
 — They hear the Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sits alone 
 Beside the tree and corner-stone. 
 
 There sits he : in his face you spy 
 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 
 Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
 
 So steady or so fair. 
 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 
 And happy in his flowery cove : 
 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; 
 
 And yet he warbles songs of war. 
 
 That seem like songs of love, 
 
 For calm and gentle is his mien ; 
 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 
 VOL. !• U 
 
290 
 
 XX. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, 
 
 On being reminded^ that she was a Month oldj on that Day. 
 
 Hast tliou then survived. 
 
 Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, 
 
 Meek Infant ! among all forlornest things 
 
 The most forlorn, one life of that bright Star, 
 
 The second glory of the heavens? — Thou hast; 
 
 Already hast survived that great decay ; 
 
 That transformation through the wide earth felt, 
 
 And by all nations. In that Being's sight 
 
 From whom the Race of human kind proceed, 
 
 A thousand years are but as yesterday ; 
 
 And one day's narrow circuit is to him 
 
 Not less capacious than a thousand years* 
 
 But what is time ? What outward glory ? neither 
 
 A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend 
 
 Through ^^ heaven's eternal year/' — Yet hail to Thee. 
 
291 
 
 Frail, feeble Monthling !^by that name, methinks, 
 
 Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out 
 
 Not idly. — Hadst thou been of Indian birth, 
 
 Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, 
 
 And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, 
 
 Or to the churlish elements exposed 
 
 On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, 
 
 Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face 
 
 Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned. 
 
 Would, with imperious admonition, then 
 
 Have scored thine age, and punctually timed 
 
 Thine infant history, on the minds of those 
 
 Who might have wandered with thee.— Mother's love, 
 
 Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts. 
 
 Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed. 
 
 Do for thee what the finger of the heavens 
 
 Doth all too often harshly execute 
 
 For thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds 
 
 Where Fancy hath small liberty to grace 
 
 The affections, to exalt them or refine ; 
 
 And the maternal sympathy itself. 
 
 Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie 
 
 Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. 
 
 Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours ! 
 
 u 2 
 
292 
 
 Even now, to solemnize thy helpless state, 
 And to enliven in the mind's regard 
 Thy passive beauty, parallels have risen, 
 Resemblances or contrasts, that connect. 
 Within the region of a Father's thoughts, 
 Thee and thy Mate and Sister of the sky. 
 And first; — thy sinless progress, through a world 
 By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed. 
 Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered clouds 
 Moving untouched in silver purity, 
 And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. 
 Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain : 
 But thou, how^ leisurely thou fill'st thy horn 
 With brightness ! — leaving her to post along, 
 And range about — disquieted in change,. 
 And still impatient of the shape she wears. 
 Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, 
 That will suffice thee ; and it seems that now 
 Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine; 
 Thou travell'st so contentedly, and sleep'st 
 In such a heedless peace. Alas ! full soon 
 Hath this conception, grateful to behold^ 
 Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er 
 By breathing mist ; and thine appears to be 
 
293 
 
 A mournful labour, while to her is given 
 
 Hope — and a renovation without end. 
 
 — That smile forbids the thought ; — for on thy face 
 
 Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, 
 
 To shoot and circulate ; — smiles have there been seen, 
 
 Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports 
 
 The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers 
 
 Thy loneliness ; — or shall those smiles be called 
 
 Feelers of love, — put forth as if to explore 
 
 This untried world, and to prepare thy way 
 
 Through a strait passage intricate and dim ? 
 
 Such are they, — and the same are tokens, signs. 
 
 Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, 
 
 Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt ; 
 
 And Reason's god-like Power be proud to own. 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF THE IMAGINATION. 
 
297 
 
 I. 
 
 There was a Boy; ye knew him well^ ye Cliffs 
 And Islands of Winander! — many a time, 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills, 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls 
 
 That they might answer him, — And they would shout 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again 
 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals. 
 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 
 
 Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced 
 
298 
 
 That pauses of deep silence mocked his skilly 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died 
 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 
 Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, 
 
 The Vale where he vv^as born : the Church-yard hangs 
 
 Upon a slope above the village-school ; 
 
 And there, along that bank, when I have passed 
 
 At evening, I believe, that oftentimes 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute— looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
299 
 
 IL 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHE New-comer! I have heard^ 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice : 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass, 
 Thy loud note smites my ear! — 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near ! 
 
 1 hear thee babbling to the Vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers ; 
 And unto me thou b ring's t a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No Bird ; but an invisible Thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery. 
 
Q 
 
 00 
 
 The same whom in my School-boy days 
 I listen'd to ; that Cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways; 
 In bush^ and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did 1 often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou w ert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still long'd for, never seen ! 
 
 * 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
301 
 
 III. 
 
 A NIGFIT'PIECE. 
 
 The sky is overcast 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close, 
 
 Heavy and w^an, all whitened by the Moon, 
 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 
 So feebly spread that not a shadow falls, 
 
 Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower. 
 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 
 Startles the pensive traveller as he treads 
 
 His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 
 
 Bent earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds are split 
 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 
 The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens* 
 
 There, in a black blue vault she sails along. 
 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 
 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark j^byss 
 
302 
 
 Drive as she drives ; — how fast they wheel away, 
 
 Yet vanish not! — the wind is in the tree, 
 
 But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
 
 Immeasureably distant ; — and the vault, 
 
 Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, 
 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 
 At length the Vision closes ; and the mind. 
 
 Not undisturbed by the delight it feels. 
 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 
 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 
303 
 
 IV. 
 
 YEW-TREES. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore^ 
 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the Bands 
 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 
 To Scotland's Heaths ; or Those that crossed the Sea 
 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 
 This solitary Tree ! — a living thing 
 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 
 
 Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale, 
 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 
 Hugeirunks! — and each particular trunk a growth 
 
304 
 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved, — 
 Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 
 That threaten the prophane ; — a pillared shade, 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue. 
 By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked 
 With unrejoicing berries, ghostly Shapes 
 May meet at noontide — Fear and trembling Hope, 
 Silence and Foresight — Death the Skeleton 
 -And Time the Shadow, — there to celebrate. 
 As in a natural temple scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. 
 
305 
 
 V- 
 
 VIEW FROM THE TOP OF 
 
 BLACK COMB. 
 
 This Height a ministering Angel might select: 
 
 For from the summit of Black Comb (dread name 
 
 Derived from clouds and storms !) the amplest range 
 
 Of unobstructed prospect may be seen 
 
 That British ground commands : — low dusky tracts, 
 
 Where Trent is nursed, far southward ! Cambrian Hills 
 
 To the south-west, a multitudinous show; 
 
 And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these, 
 
 The hoary Peaks of Scotland that give birth 
 
 To Tiviot's Stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde ; — 
 
 Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth 
 
 Gigantic Mountains rough with crags ; beneath, 
 
 Right at the imperial Station's western base. 
 
 Main Ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched 
 
 Far into silent regions blue and pale ; — 
 
 And visibly engirding Mona's Isle 
 
 VOL. I- ^ 
 
306 
 
 That^ as we left the Plain^ before our sight 
 
 Stood like a lofty Mount^ uplifting slowly, 
 
 (Above the convex of the watery globe) 
 
 Into clear view the cultured fields that streak 
 
 Its habitable shores; but now appears 
 
 A dwindled object, and submits to lie 
 
 At the Spectator's feet. — Yon azure Ridge, 
 
 Is it a perishable cloud ? Or there 
 
 Do we behold the frame of Erin's Coast? 
 
 Land sometimes by the roving shepherd swain, 
 
 Like the bright confines of another world 
 
 Not doubtfully perceived. — Look homeward now i 
 
 In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene 
 
 The spectacle, how pure! — Of Nature's works. 
 
 In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea, 
 
 A Revelation infinite it seems ; 
 
 Display august of man's inheritance. 
 
 Of Britain's calm felicity and power. 
 
307. 
 
 VL 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 . . — Jy seems a day, 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 One of those heavenly days which cannot die, 
 When forth I sallied from our Cottage-door *, 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 
 A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps 
 Tow^ards the distant woods, a Figure quaint. 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 Which for that service had been husbanded, 
 By exhortation of my frugal Dame. 
 Motley accoutrement of power to smile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, 
 More ragged than need was. Among the woods. 
 And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way 
 
 * The house at which I was boarded during the time I was 
 
 at School. 
 
 X 2 
 
308 
 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 
 Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung^ 
 
 A virgin scene ! — -A little while I stood, 
 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 
 As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint 
 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 
 The banquet, — or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 
 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 
 And w^eary expectation, have been blessed 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. — 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 For ever^ — and I saw the sparkling foam, 
 
 And with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 
 That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees. 
 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, 
 
 I heard the murmur and the murmurino* sound. 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 
309 
 
 Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent thing's. 
 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 
 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 
 And merciless ravage; and the shady nook 
 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 
 » 
 
 Their quiet being : and, unless I now 
 
 Confound my present feelings with the past, 
 
 Even then, when from the bower I turned away 
 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 
 The silent trees and the intruding sky. — 
 
 Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades 
 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
310 
 
 VIL 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely Apparition^ sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
 Like Twilight's^ too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
 To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 
 
311 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food; 
 
 For transient sorrows, shnple wiles. 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A Traveller betwixt life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill, 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
312 
 
 VIIL 
 
 Nightingale! thou surely art 
 A Creature of ebullient heart : — 
 
 These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ; 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou sing'.st as if the God of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 
 
 A song in mockery and despite ^ 
 
 Of shades, and dews^ and silent Night; 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful Groves. 
 
 1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
 
 His homely tale^ this very day. 
 
 His voice was buried among trees. 
 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not cease ; but coo^d — and cooM ; 
 And somewhat pensively he woo'd : 
 
 He sang of love with quiet blending, 
 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 
 Of serious faith and inward glee ; 
 
 That was the Song — the Sons: for me ! 
 
313 
 
 IX. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 
 Then Nature said, '' A loveher flower 
 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 ^^ Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 ^^ She shall be sportive as the Fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
" The floating Clouds their state shall lead 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The Stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where Rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 ^' And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy Dell ." 
 
315 
 
 Thus Nature spake — ^The work was done 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race w as run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this cahii, and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 A SLUMBEH did my spirit seal; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither hears nor sees, 
 Rolled roimd in earth's diurnal course 
 
 With rocks and stones and trees ! 
 
316 
 
 XL 
 
 THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE^. 
 
 When the Brothers reached the gateway, 
 
 Eustace pointed widi his lance 
 
 To the Horn which there was hanging ; 
 
 Horn of the inheritance. 
 
 Horn it was which none could sound, 
 
 No one upon living ground, 
 
 Save He who came as rightful Heir 
 
 To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair. 
 
 * This Poem and the Ballad which follows it, as they rather 
 refer to the imagination than are produced by it, would not have 
 been placed here but to avoid a needless multiplication of the 
 
 Glasses. 
 
317 
 
 Heirs from ages without record 
 
 Had the House of Lucie born, 
 
 Who of right had claimed the Lordship 
 
 By the proof upon the Horn : 
 
 Each at the appointed hour 
 
 Tried the Horn, — it ownM his power; 
 
 He was acknowledged : and the blast, 
 
 Which good Sh' Eustace sounded, was the last 
 
 With his lance Sir Eustace pointed. 
 
 And to Hubert thus said he, 
 ^ What I speak this Horn shall w itness 
 ' For thy better memory. 
 ' Hear, then, and neglect me not ! 
 ' At this time, and on this spot, 
 ' The words are utter'd from my heart, 
 ^ As my last earnest prayer ere we depart, 
 
 ^ On good service we are going 
 
 ^ Life to risk by sea and land ; 
 
 ^ In which course if Christ our Saviour 
 
 ^ Do my sinful soul demand, 
 
 ' Hither come thou back straightway, 
 
 ^ Hubert, if alive that day; 
 
 ' Return, and sound the Horn, that we 
 
 ^ May have a living House still left in thee T' 
 
318 
 
 ^^ Fear iiot/^ quickly answered Hubert; 
 
 ^^ As I am thy P'ather's son, 
 
 '' What thou askest, noble Brother, 
 
 '^ With God's favour shall be done/' 
 
 So were both right well content : 
 
 From the Castle forth they went. 
 
 And at the head of their Array 
 
 To Palestine the Brothers took their wa\\ 
 
 Side by side they fought (the Lucies 
 
 Were a line for valour fam'd) 
 
 And where'er their strokes alighted 
 
 There the Saracens were tam'd. 
 
 Whence, then, could it come the thought, 
 
 By what evil spirit brought ? 
 
 Oh ! can a brave Man wish to take 
 
 His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake ? 
 
 " Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert, 
 ^^ Deep he lies in Jordan flood/' — 
 Stricken by this ill assurance. 
 Pale and trembling Hubert stood. 
 '^ Take your earnings." — Oh ! that I 
 Could have seen my Brother die ! 
 It was a pang that vex'd him then ; 
 And oft returned, again, and yet again. 
 
319 
 
 Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace ! 
 
 Nor of him were tidings heard. 
 
 Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer. 
 
 Back again to England steered. 
 
 To his Castle Hubert sped ; 
 
 He has nothino- now to dread. 
 
 But silent and by stealth he came, 
 
 And at an hour which nobody could name. 
 
 None could tell if it were night-time. 
 
 Night or da)^, at even or morn ; 
 
 For the sound was heard by no one 
 
 Of the proclamation-horn. 
 
 But bold Hubert lives in glee : 
 
 Months and years went smilingly ; 
 
 With plenty was his table spread; 
 
 And bright the Lady is who shares his bed. 
 
 Likewise he had Sons and Daughters ; 
 And, as good men do, he sate 
 At his board by these surrounded, 
 Flourishing in fair estate. 
 And, while thus in open day 
 Once he sate, as old books say, 
 A blast was utterM from the Horn, 
 Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 
 
320 
 
 ^Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace ! 
 
 He is come to claim his ri<rht : 
 
 Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains 
 
 Hear the challenge with delight. 
 
 Hu)3ert! tliough the blast be blown 
 
 He is helpless and alone : 
 
 Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word ! 
 
 And there he may be lodg'd, and thou be Lord 
 
 Speak! — astounded Hubert cannot; 
 And if power to speak he had, 
 All are daunted, all the household 
 Smitten to the heart, and sad, 
 ""Tis Sir Eustace ; if it be 
 Living Man, it must be he ! 
 'Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 
 And by a Postern-gate he slunk away. 
 
 Long, and long was he unheard of : 
 To his Brother then he came, 
 Made confession, ask'd forgiveness, 
 Ask'd it by a Brother's name. 
 And by all the saints in heaven ; 
 And of Eustace was forgiven : 
 Then in a Convent went to hide 
 His melancholy head, and there he died. 
 
321 
 
 But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels 
 Had preserved from Murderers' hands, 
 And from Pagan chains had rescued, 
 
 Liv'd with honour on his lands. 
 Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs : 
 And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 
 
 A long posterity renown' d. 
 
 Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound. 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
sm 
 
 XII. 
 GOODY BLAKE J^D 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 gray, 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 ! 
 
 r 
 
323 
 
 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. 
 Old Goody Blake was old and poor; 
 111 fed 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 cantt/ Dame 
 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 
 
 Y 2 
 
324 
 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh ! then how her old bones would shake I 
 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! whene'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout; 
 And scattered 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, w hen 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. 
 
325 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake ; 
 And vowed that she should be detected, 
 And he on her would veng;eance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire heM go, 
 And to the fields his road would take ; 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow. 
 He watched 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 by-road back again to take, 
 He started forward with a shout, 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 
 
326 
 
 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, ^^ Tv e caught you then at last T 
 Then Good}^ who had nothing said, 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 
 And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed 
 To God that is the judge of all. 
 
 She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, 
 While Harry held her by the arm — 
 '' God ! who art never out of hearings 
 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. 
 
s^7 
 
 \ 
 
 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, — 
 And blankets were about him pinnM ; 
 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 w^arm 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 
 
328 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I WANDERED loiiely as a Cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er Vales and HiJls^ 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host of golden Daffodils ; 
 
 Beside the Lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay: 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced^ but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : — 
 
 A Poet could not but be gay 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 What wealth the shew to me had brought : 
 
329 
 
 For oft when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 *They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude, 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the Daffodils. 
 
 "^ The subject of these Stanzas is rather an elementary feeling and 
 simple impression (approaching to the nature of an ocular spectrum) 
 upon th&i:maginative faculty, than an exertion o( it. The one which 
 follows is strictly a Reverie ; and neither that, nor the next after it in 
 succession, ^' The Power of Music," would have been placed here 
 except for the reason given in the foregoing note. 
 
330 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 
 
 At the corner of Wood-street, when day-Hght appears, 
 There^s a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
 Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury ghde, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove^s, 
 The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves. 
 
 She looks, and her Heart is in heaven : but they fade. 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ; 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. 
 
331 
 
 XV. 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 An Orpheus! an Orpheus! — yes, Faith may grow bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 
 
 His station is there ; — and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim- 
 Was aught ever heard like his Fiddle and him f 
 
 What an eager assembly! what an empire is this ! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; 
 The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; 
 And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, 
 So he where he stands is a centre of light ; 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, 
 And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back. 
 
332 
 
 That errand-bound ^Prentice was passing in haste — 
 What matter ! he's caught — and his time runs to waste — 
 The News-man is stopped^ though he stops on the fret, 
 And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net ! 
 
 The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; 
 The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — 
 
 If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease; 
 She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees ! 
 
 He stands, backed by the Wall ; — he abates not his din ; 
 His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, 
 From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 
 
 blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand 
 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band ; 
 
 1 am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 
 
 If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height, 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? oh, not he ! 
 The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. 
 
333 
 
 There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower 
 That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour ! — 
 A Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound, 
 While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 
 
 Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream ; 
 Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream : 
 They are deaf to your inurmur5 — they care not for you, 
 Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! 
 
334 
 
 XVI. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I wxre walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, 
 one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of 
 our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, 
 in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, 
 one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, " What you are stepping 
 westward ?" 
 
 ^^ What you are stepping zoestzcardT^ — ^' YeaT 
 — 'Twould be a wildish destiny, 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 In a strange Land, and far from home^ 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 With such a Sky to lead him on ? 
 
335 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
 
 And stepping westward seem'd to be 
 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 
 I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound 
 
 Of something without place or bound ; 
 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 Was walking by her native Lake : 
 The salutation had to me 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 Its power was felt; and while my eye 
 Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
336 
 
 XVII. 
 
 GLEN-JLMJIN, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 NARROW GLEN. 
 
 In this still place, remote from men, 
 
 Sleeps Ossiaii, in the Narrow Glen; 
 
 In this still place, where murmurs on 
 
 But one meek Streamlet, only one : 
 
 He sang of battles, and the breath 
 
 Of stormy war, and violent death ; 
 
 And should, methinks, when all was past. 
 
 Have rightfully been laid at last 
 
 Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 
 
 As by a spirit turbulent; 
 
 Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 
 
 And every thing unreconciled ; 
 
 In some complaining, dim retreat, 
 
 For fear and melancholy meet ; 
 
 But this' is calm ; there cannot be 
 
 A more entire tranquillity. 
 
337 
 
 Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ? 
 Or IS it but a grroundless creed? 
 What matters it? — I blame them not 
 Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 
 Was moved ; and in this way expressed 
 Their notion of its perfect rest. 
 A Convent, even a hermit's Cell 
 Would break the silence of this Dell : 
 It is not quiet, is not ease ; 
 But something deeper far than these : 
 The separation that is here 
 Is of the grave ; and of austere 
 And happy feelings of the dead : 
 And, therefore, was it rightly said 
 That Ossian, last of all his race ! 
 Lies buried in this lonely place. 
 
 vol.. 1 
 
NOTES TO VOLUME I. 
 
 Page AB.'—Poein of the Highla7id Boy. It is recorded in 
 Dampier's Voyages that a Boy, the Son of a Captain of a 
 Man of War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell and floated in 
 it from the shore to his Father's Ship, which lay at anchor 
 at the distance of half a mile. Upon the suggestion of a 
 Friend, I have substituted such a Shell for that less elegant 
 vessel in which my blind voyager did actually intrust himself 
 to the dangerous current of Loch Levin, as was related to 
 me by an Eye-witness. 
 
 Page 235. — To the Daisy. This Poem, and two others to 
 the same Flower, were written in the year 1802; which is 
 mentioned because in some of the ideas, though not in the 
 manner in which those ideas are connected, and likewise even 
 in some of the expressions, they bear a striking resemblance 
 to a Poem (lately published) of Mr« Montgomery, entitled, 
 a Field Flower. This being said, Mr. Montgomery will not 
 think any apology due to him ; I cannot however help address- 
 ing him in the words of the Father of English Poets, 
 
 * Though it happe me to rehersin — 
 ' That ye han in your freshe songis saied, 
 ' Forberith me, and beth not ill apaied, 
 ' Sith that ye se I doe it in the honour 
 ^ Of Love, and eke in service of the Flour/ 
 
 Note puhluhed in the Year 1808. 
 
 z 2 
 

 V 
 
 v.^^ 
 6 
 
 ESSAY, 
 
 / 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY TO THE PREFACE, 
 
 By this time, I trust that the judicious Reader, who has 
 now first become acquainted with these poems, is persuaded 
 that a very senseless outcry has been raised against them and 
 ^their Author. — Casually, and very rarely only, do I see any 
 periodical publication, except a daily newspaper; but I am 
 not wholly unacquainted with the spirit in which my most 
 active and persevering Adversaries have maintained their 
 hostility; nor with the impudent falsehoocs and base artifices 
 to which they have had recourse. Tlese^ as implying a 
 consciousness on their parts that attacks honestly and fairly 
 conducted would be unavailing, could rot but have been re- 
 garded by me with triumph ; had th^y been accompanied 
 with such display of talents and inftrmation as might give 
 weight to the opinions of the Writers, whether favourable or 
 unfavourable. But the ignorance ff those who have chosen 
 to stand forth as my enemies^i as f^ as I am acquainted with 
 their enmity, has unfortunately oeen still more gross than 
 their disingenuousness, and thei; incompetence more flagrant 
 than their malice. The efFectin the eyes of the discerning 
 is indeed ludicrous : yet, conemptible as such men are, in 
 return for the forced compliaent paid me by their long-con- 
 tinued notice (which^ as I have appeared so rarely before 
 
 ^i» 
 
 
342 
 
 the public, no one can say has been solicited) I entreat them 
 to spare themselves. The lash, which they are aiming at my 
 productions, does, in fact, only fall on phantoms of their own 
 brain ; which, I grant, I am innocently instrumental in raising. 
 — By what fatality the orb of my genius (for genius none of 
 them seem to deny me) acts upon these men like the moon 
 upon a certain description of patients, it would be irksome 
 to inquire ; nor would it consist with the respect which I owe 
 myself to take further notice of opponents whom I internally 
 despise. 
 
 With the young, of both sexes. Poetry is, like love, a pas- 
 sion; but, for much the greater part of those who have been 
 proud of its power over their minds, a necessity soon arises 
 of breaking the pleasing bondage; or it relaxes of itself; — 
 the thoughts bCiUg occupied in domestic cares, or the time 
 engrossed by busness. Poetry then becomes only an occa- 
 sional recreation . while to those whose existence passes 
 away in a course of fashionable pleasure it is a species of 
 luxurious amusemeit. — In middle and declining age, a scat- 
 tered number of serious persons resort to poetry, as to reli- 
 gion, for a protection against the pressure of trivial employ- 
 ments, and as a consolation for the afflictions of life. And 
 lastly, there are many, who, having been enamoured of this 
 art, in their youth, hive found leisure, after youth was 
 spent, to cultivate genenl literature ; in which poetry has 
 continued to be compreheided as a study. 
 
 Into the above Classes he Readers of poetry may be 
 divided ; Critics abound in tlem all ; but from the last only 
 can opinions be collected of absolute value, and worthy to 
 be depended upon, as propheic of the destiny of a new 
 
343 
 
 work. The young, who in nothing can escape delusion, are 
 especially subject to it in their intercourse with poetry. 
 The cause, not so obvious as the fact is unquestionable, is 
 the same as that from which erroneous judgments in this art, 
 in the minds of men of all ages, chiefly proceed ; but upon 
 Youth it operates with peculiar force. The appropriate 
 business of poetry (which, nevertheless, if genuine is as perma- 
 nent as pure science) her appropriate employment, her pri- 
 vilege and her duty^ is to treat of things not as they are, 
 but as they appear; not as they exist in themselves, but as 
 they seem to exist to the senses and to the passions. What a 
 world of delusion does this acknowledged principle prepare 
 for the inexperienced ! what temptations to go astray are 
 here held forth for those whose thoughts have be^n little dis- 
 ciplined by the understanding, and whose feelings revolt 
 from the sway of reason ! — When a juvenile Raader is in the 
 height of his rapture with some vicious passage, should 
 experience throw in doubts, or commor-sense suggest 
 suspicions, a lurking consciousness that the realities of 
 the Muse are but shows, and that her liveliest excitements 
 are raised by transient shocks of conflictirg feeling and suc- 
 cessive assemblages of contradictory thmghts— is ever at 
 hand to justify extravagance, and to sanction absurdity. 
 But, it may be asked, as these illusions ire unavoidable, and 
 no doubt eminently useful to the mird as a process, what 
 good can be gained by making obser^tions the tendency of 
 which is to diminish the confidence ofyouth in its feelings, and 
 thus to abridge its innocent and e^n profitable pleasures > 
 The reproach implied in the quesion could not be warded 
 off, if Youth were incapable of bring delighted with what is 
 truV excellent ; or if these ^rors always terminated of 
 themselves in due season. Bvi, with the majority, though 
 
344 
 
 their force be abated, they continue through hfe. Moreover, 
 the fire of youth Is too vivacious an element to be extinguish- 
 ed or damped by a philosophical remark ; and, while there 
 is no danger that what has been said will be injurious or pain- 
 ful to the ardent and the confident, it may prove beneficial 
 to those who, being enthusiastic, are, at the same time, 
 modest and ingenuous. The intimation may unite with 
 their own misgivings to regulate their sensibility, and to bring 
 in, sooner than it would otherwise have arrived, a more dis- 
 creet and sound judgment* 
 
 If it should excite wonder that men of ability, in later life, 
 whose understandings have been rendered acute by practice 
 in affairs, should be so easily and so far imposed upon when 
 they happen ':o take up a new work in verse, this appears to 
 be the cause i — that, having discontinued their attention to 
 poetry, whatever progress may have been made in other de- 
 partments of knowledge, they have not, as to this art, advanced 
 in true discernmmt beyond the age of youth. If then a new 
 poem falls in ther way, whose attractions are of that kind 
 which would havemraptured them during the heat of youth, 
 the judgment not leing improved to a degree that they shall 
 be disgusted, they are dazzled; and prize and cherish the 
 faults for having haa power to make the present time vanish 
 before them, and to throw the mind back, as by enchant- 
 ment, into the happies season of life. As they read, powers 
 seem to be revived, pasions are regenerated, and pleasures 
 restored. The Book wa probably taken up after an escape 
 from the burthen of busiiess, and with a wish to forget the 
 world, and all its vexations and anxieties. Having obtained 
 this wish, and so much moe, it is natural that they should 
 make report as they have fei;. 
 
3irj 
 
 If Men of mature age, through want of practice, be thus 
 easily beguiled into admiration of absurdities, extravagances, 
 and misplaced ornaments, thinking it proper that their under- 
 standings shouldenjoyaholiday, while they areunbendingtheir 
 minds with verse, it may be expected that such Readers will 
 resemble their former selves also in strength of prejudice, and 
 an inaptitude to be moved by the unostentatious beauties of 
 a pure style. In the higher poetry, an enlightened Critic 
 chiefly looks for a reflexion of the wisdom of the heart and 
 the grandeur of the imagination. Wherever these appear, 
 simplicity accompanies them ; Magnificence herself, when 
 legitimate, depending upon a simplicity of her own, to regu- 
 late her ornaments. But it is a well known property of hu- 
 man nature that our estimates are ever governed by com- 
 parisons, of which we are conscious with various degrees of 
 distinctness. Is it not, then, inevitable (confining these ob- 
 servations to the effects of style merely) that an eye, accus- 
 tomed to the glaring hues of diction by which such Readers 
 are caught and excited, will for the most part be rather re- 
 pelled than attracted by an original Work the coloring of 
 which is disposed according to a pure and refined scheme of 
 harmony ? It is in the fine arts as in the affairs of Hfe, no 
 man can serve (i. e. obey with zeal and fidelity) two Masters. 
 
 As Poetry is most just to its own divine origin when it 
 administers the comforts and breathes the spirit of religion, 
 they w^ho have learned to perceive this truth, and who 
 betake themselves to reading verse for sacred purposes, must 
 be preserved from numerous illusions to which the two 
 Classes of Readers, whom we have been considering, are 
 liable. But, as the mind grows serious from the weight of 
 life, the range of its passions is contracted accordingly; and 
 its sympathies become so exclusive that many species of 
 
346 
 
 high excellence wholly escape, or but languidly excite, its 
 notice. Besides, Men who read from religious or moral in- 
 clinations, even when the subject is of that kind which they 
 approve, are beset with misconceptions and mistakes pecu- 
 liar to themselves. Attaching so much importance to the 
 truths which interest them, they are prone to overrate the 
 Authors by whom these truths are expressed and enforced. 
 They come prepared to impart so much passion to the Poet's 
 language, that they remain unconscious how little, in fact, 
 they receive from it. And, on the other hand, religious 
 faith is to him who holds it so momentous a thing, and error 
 appears to be attended with such tremendous consequences, 
 that, if opinions touching upon religion occur which the 
 Reader condemns, he not only cannot sympathize with them 
 however animated the expression, but there is, for the most 
 part, an end put to all satisfaction and enjoyment. Love, if 
 it before existed, is converted into dislike ; and the heart of 
 the Reader is set against the Author and his book. — To 
 these excesses, they, who from their professions ought 
 to be the most guarded against them, are perhaps the most 
 liable; I mean those sects whose religion, being from the 
 calculating understanding, is cold and formal. For when Chris- 
 tianity, the religion of humility, is founded upon the proud- 
 est quality of our nature, what can be expected but contra- 
 dictions ? Accordingly, believers of this cast are at one time 
 contemptuous; at another, being troubled as they are and 
 must be with inward misgivings, they are jealous and sus- 
 picious ; — and at all seasons, they are under temptation to 
 supply, by the heat with which they defend their tenets, the 
 animation which is wanting to the constitution of the religion 
 itself. 
 
 Faith was giyen to man that his affections, detached from 
 
347 
 
 the treasures of time, might be inclined to settle upon those 
 of eternity :— the elevation of his nature, which this habit 
 produces on earth, being to him a presumptive evidence of 
 a future state of existence ; and giving him a title to partake 
 of its holiness. The religious man values what he sees 
 chiefly as an " imperfect shadowing forth" of w^hat he is 
 incapable of seeing. The concerns of religion refer to in- 
 definite objects, and are too weighty for the mind to support 
 them without relieving itself by resting a great part of the 
 burthen upon words and symbols. The commerce between 
 Man and his Maker cannot be carried on but by a process 
 w^here much is represented in little, and the infinite Being 
 accommodates himself to a finite capacity. In all this may 
 be perceived the affinities between religion and poetry; — 
 between religion — making up the deficiencies of reason by 
 faith, and poetry — passionate for the instruction of reason ; 
 between religion — whose element is infinitude, and w^hose 
 ultimate trust is the supreme of things, submitting herself 
 to circumscription and reconciled to substitutions ; and 
 poetry — etherial and transcendant, yet incapable to sustain 
 her existence without sensuous incarnation. In this commu- 
 nity of nature may be perceived also the lurking incitements 
 of kindred error ; — so that we shall find that po poetry has 
 beenmoresubject todistortion,than that species the argument 
 and scope of which is religious ; and no lovers of the art have 
 gone further astray than the pious and the devout. 
 
 Whither then shall we turn for that union of qualifica- 
 tions which must necessarily exist before the decisions of a 
 critic can be of absolute value? For a mind at once poetical 
 and philosophical ; for a critic whose affections are as free 
 and kindly as the spirit of society, and whose understanding 
 is severe as that of dispassionate government ? Where are we 
 
o. 
 
 48 
 
 to look for that initiatory composure of mind which no self- 
 ishness can disturb ? For a natural sensibility that has been 
 tutored into correctness without losing any thing of its quick- 
 ness ; and for active faculties capable of answering the de- 
 mands which an Author of original imagination shall make 
 upon them, — associated with a judgment that cannot be 
 duped into admiration by aught that is unworthy of it ? — 
 Among those and those only, who, never having suffered 
 their youthful love of poetry to remit much of its force, have 
 applied, to the consideration of the laws of this art, the best 
 power of their understandings. At the same time it must be 
 observed — that, as this Class comprehends the only judg- 
 ments which are trust-worthy, so does it include the most 
 erroneous and perverse. For to be mis-taught is worse than 
 to be untaught; and no perverseness equals that which is 
 supported by system, no errors are so difBcult to root out as 
 those which the understanding has pledged its credit to up- 
 hold. In this Class are contained Censors^ who, if they be 
 pleased with what is good, are pleased with it only by imper- 
 fect glimpses, and upon false principles ; who, should they 
 generalize rightly to a certain point, are sure to suffer for it 
 in the end ; — who, if they stumble upon a sound rule, are 
 fettered by misapplying it, or by straining it too far ; being 
 incapable of perceiving when it ought to yield to one of 
 higher order. In it are found Critics too petulant to be pas- 
 sive to a genuine Poet, and too feeble to grapple with him ; 
 Men, who take upon them to report of the course which he 
 holds whom they are utterly unable to accompany, — con-* 
 founded if he turn quick upon the wing, dismayed if he soar 
 steadily into " the region ;'' — Men of palsied imaginations 
 and indurated hearts ; in whose minds all healthy action is 
 languid, — who, therefore, feed as the many direct them, 
 or with the many> are greedy after vicious provocatives ; — 
 
o49 
 
 Q 
 
 Judges, whose censure is auspicious, and whose praise ominous ! 
 In this Class meet together the two extremes of best and worst. 
 
 The observations presented in the foregoing series, are of 
 too ungracious a nature to have been made without rekic- 
 tance ; and were it only on this account I would invite the 
 Reader to try them by the test of comprehensive experience. 
 If the number of judges who can be confidently relied upon 
 be in reality so small, it ought to follow that partial notice 
 only, or neglect, perhaps long continued, or attention wholly 
 inadequate to their merits— must have been the fate of most 
 works in the higher departments of poetry; and that, on the 
 other hand, numerous productions have blazed into popula- 
 rity, and have passed away, leaving scarcely a trace behind 
 them :— it will be, further, found that when Authors have 
 at length raised themselves into general admiration and 
 maintained their ground, errors and prejudices have pre- 
 vailed concerning their genius and their works, which the 
 few who are conscious of those errors and prejudices would 
 deplore ; if they were not recompensed by perceiving that 
 there are select Spirits for whom it is ordained that their fame 
 ^hall be in the world an existence like that of Virtue, which 
 owes its being to the struggles it makes, and its vigour to 
 the enemies whom it provokes; — a vivacious quality ever 
 doomed to meet with opposition, and still triumphing over 
 it; and, from the nature of its dominion, incapable of being 
 brought to the sad conclusion of Alexander, when he wept 
 that there were no more worlds for him to conquer. 
 I' 
 
 Let us take a hasty retrospect of the poetical literature of 
 this Country for the greater part of last two Centuries, and 
 see if the facts correspond with these inferences. 
 
350 
 
 n 
 
 Who is there that can now endure to read the "-' Creation 
 <^f Dubartas ? Yet all Europe once resounded with his praise ; 
 he was caressed by Kings ; and, when his Poem was trans- 
 lated into our language, the Faery Queen faded before it. 
 The name of Spenser, whose genius is of a higher order 
 tlian even that of Ariosto, is at this day scarcely known 
 beyond the limits of the British Isles. And, if the value of his 
 works is to be estimated from the attention now paid to them 
 by his Countrymen, compared with that which they bestow 
 on those of other writers, it must be pronounced small 
 indeed. 
 
 " Thf^ laurel, ttippH of might}^ Conquerors 
 And Poets sas^e'' — 
 
 to 
 
 are his own words ; but his wisdom has, in this particular, 
 been his worst enemy ; while, its opposite, whether in the 
 shape of folly or madness, has been their best friend. But 
 he was a great power ; and bears a high name : the laurel 
 lias been awarded to him. 
 
 A Dramatic Author, if he write for the Stage, must adapt 
 liimself to the taste of the Audience, or they will not endure 
 him ; accordingly the mighty genius of Shakespeare was listen- 
 ed to. The People were delighted ; but I am not sufficiently 
 versed in Stage antiquities to determine whether they did 
 not flock as eagerly to the representation of many pieces of 
 contemporary Authors, wholly undeserving to appear upon 
 the same boards. Had there been a formal contest for su- 
 periority among dramatic Writers, that Shakespeare, hke 
 his predecessors Sophocles and Euripides, would have often 
 been subject to the mortification of seeing the prize adjudged 
 to sorry competitors, becomes too probable when we reflect 
 that the Admirers of Settle and Shadwell were^ in a later 
 
351 
 
 ^g^} as numerous, and reckoned as respectable in point of 
 talent as those of Dryden. At all events, that Shakespeare 
 stooped to accommodate himself to the People, is sufficiently 
 apparent ; and one of the most striking proofs of his almost 
 omnipotent genius, is, that he could turn to such glorious 
 purpose those materials which the prepossessions of the age 
 compelled him to make use of. Yet even this marvel- 
 lous skill appears not to have been enough to prevent his 
 rivals from having some advantage over him in public estima- 
 tion ; else how can we account for passages and scenes that 
 exist in his works, vmless upon a supposition that some of 
 the grossest of them, a fact which in my own mind I have no 
 doubt of, were foisted in hy the Players, for the gratification 
 of the many ? 
 
 But that his Works, whatever might be their reception 
 upon the stage, made little impression upon the ruling Intel- 
 lects of the time, may be inferred from the fact that Lord 
 Bacon, in his multifarious writings, no where either quotes 
 or alludes to him *. — His dramatic excellence enabled him to 
 resume possession of the stage after the Restoration ; but 
 Dryden tells us that in his time two of Beaumont's and Flet- 
 cher's Plays was acted for one of Shakespeare's. And so 
 faint and limited was the perception of the poetic beauties 
 of his dramas in the time of Pope, that, in his Edition of the 
 Plays, with a view of rendering to the general Reader a 
 necessary service, he printed between inverted commas those 
 passages which he thought most worthy of notice. 
 
 * 
 
 The learned Hakewill (a 3d edition of whose book bears date 1635) 
 writing to refute the error *' touching Nature's perpetual and universal de- 
 cay," cites triumphantly the names of Ariosto, Tasso, Bartas, and Spenser, 
 as instances that poetic genius had not degenerated ; but he makes no 
 mention of Shakespeare. 
 
At this day, the French Critics have abated nothing of 
 their aversion to this darling of our Nation: ^' the EngUsh 
 with their BufFon de Shakespeare" is as familiar an expres- 
 sion among them as in the time of Voltaire, Baron Grimm 
 is the only French writer who seems to have perceived his 
 infinite superiority to the first names of the French Theatre ; 
 an advantage which the Parisian Critic owed to his German 
 blood and German education. The most enlightened Ita- 
 lians, though well acquainted with our language, are wholly 
 incompetent to measure the proportions of Shakespeare. 
 The Germans onl}'', of foreign nations, are approaching to- 
 wards a knowledge and feeling of what he is. In some re- 
 spects they have acquired a superiority over the fellow- 
 countrymen of the Poet ; for among us it is a current, I 
 might say, an established opinion that Shakespeare is justly 
 praised when he is pronounced to be ^' a wild irregular 
 genius, in whom great faults are compensated by great 
 beauties.'^ How long may it be before this misconception 
 passes away, and it becomes universally acknowledged that 
 the judgment of Shakespeare in the selection of his materials, 
 and in the manner in which he has made them, heterogeneous 
 as they often are, constitute a unity of their own, and contri- 
 bute all to one great end, is not less admirable than his 
 imagination, his invention, and his intuitive knowledge of 
 human Nature ! 
 
 There is extant a 5mall Volume of miscellaneous Poems 
 in which Shakespeare expresses his own feelings in his own 
 Person. It is not difficult to conceive that the Editor, 
 George Stevens, should have been insensible to the beauties 
 of one portion of that Volume, the Sonnets ; though there 
 is not a part of the writings of this Poet where is found in an 
 
353 
 
 equal Compass a greater number of exquisite feelings feli- 
 citously expressed. But, from regard to the Critic's own 
 credit, he would not have ventured to talk of an ^ act of par- 
 liament not being strong enough to compel the perusal of 
 these, or any production of Shakespeare, if he had not known 
 that the people of England were ignorant of the treasures 
 contained in those little pieces ; and if he had not, moreover, 
 shared the too common propensity of human nature to exult 
 over a supposed fall into the mire of a genius whom he had 
 been compelled to regard with admiration, as an inmate of the 
 celestial regions, — " there sitting where he durst not soar.'* 
 
 Nine years before the death of Shakespeare, Milton was 
 born ; and early in life he published several small poems, 
 wliich, though on their first appearance they were praised by 
 a few of the judicious, were afterwards neglected to that de- 
 gree that Pope, in his youth, could pilfer from them without 
 danger of detection,— Whether these poems are at this day 
 justly appreciated I will not undertake to decide : nor would 
 it imply a severe reflection upon the mass of Readers to 
 suppose the contrary ; seeing that a Man of the acknowledged 
 genius of Voss, the German Poet, could suffer their spirit to 
 evaporate ; and could change their character, as is done in 
 the translation made by him of the most popular of those 
 pieces. At all events it is certain that these Poems of Mil- 
 ton are now much read, and loudly praised ; yet were they 
 little heard of till more than 1 50 years after their publication ; 
 and of the Sonnets, Dr. Johnson, as appears from BoswelPs 
 
 * This flippant insensibility was publickly reprehended by Mr. Coleridge 
 in a course of Lectures upon Poetry given by him at the Royal Institution. 
 For the various merits of thought and language in Shakespeare's Sonnets see 
 Numbers 27, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 64, 66, 68, 75, 76, 86, 91, 92, 93, 97, 9J^, 
 105, 107, 108, 109, HI, 113, 114, 116, 117, 129, and many others, 
 VOL. I. "^^ ^ 
 
354 
 
 Life of him, was in the habit of thinking and speaking as 
 contemptuously as Stevens wrote upon those of Shakespeare. 
 
 v 
 
 About the time when the Pindaric Odes of Cowley and his 
 imitatorS;, and the productions of that class of curious thinkers 
 whom Dr. Johnson has strangely styled Metaphysical Poets, 
 were beginning to lose something of that extravagant ad- 
 miation which they had excited, the Paradise Lost made its 
 appearance. *^ Fit audience find though few," was the peti- 
 tion addressed by the Poet to his inspiring Muse. I have said 
 elsewhere that he gained more than he asked ; this I believe 
 to be true ; but Dr. Johnson has fallen into a gross mistake 
 when he attempts to prove, by the sale of the work, that Mil- 
 ton's Countrymen v/ere "just to it'' upon its first appearance. 
 Thirteen hundred Copies were sold in two years; an un- 
 common example, he asserts, of the prevalence of genius in 
 opposition to so much recent enmity as Milton's public con- 
 duct had excited. But be it remembered that, if Milton's 
 political and religious opinions, and the manner in which he 
 announced them, had raised him many enemies, they had pro- 
 cured him numerous friends ; who, as all personal danger was 
 passed away at the time of publication, would be eager to 
 procure the master-work of a Man whom they revered, and 
 whom they would be proud of praising. The demand did 
 not immediately increase ; " for," says Dr. Johnson, " many 
 more Readers" (he means Persons in the habit of reading 
 poetry) " than were supplied at first the Nation did not af- 
 ford.'* How careless must a writer be who can make this asser- 
 tion in the face of so many existing title pages to belie it ! 
 Turning to my own shelves, I find the foho of Cowley, yih 
 Edition, l68h A book near it is Flatman's Poems, J th Edition, 
 1686 Waller^ 5th Edition, same date. The Poems of Norris of 
 
355 
 
 Bemerton not long after went, I believe, through nme Edi- 
 tions. What further demand there might be for these works I 
 do not know, but I well remember, that 25 Years ago, the 
 Booksellers' stalls in London swarmed with the folios of 
 Cowley. This is not mentioned in disparagement of that able 
 writer and amiable Man ; but merely to shew— that, if Mil- 
 ton's work was not more read, it was not because readers did 
 not exist at the time. Only 3000 copies of the Paradise Lost 
 sold in 1 1 Years ; and the Nation, says Dr. Johnson, had 
 been satisfied from 1623 to l644, that is 41 Years, with only 
 two Editions of the Works of Shakespeare ; which probably 
 did not together make 1000 Copies ; facts adduced by the 
 critic to prove the "^ paucity of Readers." — ^There were 
 Readers in multitudes ; but their money went for other pur- 
 poses, as their admiration was fixed elsewhere. We are 
 authorized, then, to affirm that the reception of the Paradise 
 Lost, and the slow progress of its fame, are proofs as striking 
 as can be desired that the positions v/hich I am attempting 
 to establish are not erroneous*^. — How amusing to shape to 
 one's self such a critique as a Wit of Charles's days, or a Lord 
 of the Miscellanies, or trading Journalist, of King William's 
 time, would have brought forth, if he had set his faculties 
 industriously to work upon this Poem, every where impreg- 
 nated with original excellence ! 
 
 So strange iudeed are the obliquities of admiration, that they 
 whose opinions are much influenced by authority will often be 
 
 ^ Hughes is express upon this subject; in his dedication of Spense/'s 
 Works to Lord Somers he writes thus. '' It was your Lordship's encoui- 
 ra^ino- a beautiful Edition of Paradise Lost that first brouglit that incom- 
 parable Poem to be general Jy kuovvii and esteemed." 
 
 A A 2 
 
356 
 
 tempted to think that there are no fixed principles ^ in human 
 natm-e for this art to rest upon, I have bieen honoured by 
 being permitted to peruse in MS. a tract composed between 
 the period of the llevolution and the close of that Century. 
 It is the Work of an English Peer of high accomphshments, 
 its object to form the character and direct the studies of his Son. 
 Perhaps no where does a more beautiful treatise of the kind 
 exist. The good sense and wisdom of the thoughts, the deli- 
 cacy of the feelings, and the charm of the style, are, throughout, 
 equally conspicuous. Yet the Author, selecting among the 
 Poets of his own Country those whom he deems most worthy 
 of his son's perusal, particularizes only Lord Rochester, Sir 
 John Denham, and Cowley. Writing about the same time, 
 Shaftsbury, an Author at present unjustly depreciated^ de- 
 scribes the English Muses as only yet lisping in their Cradles. 
 
 The arts by which Pope, soon afterwards, contrived to 
 procure to himself a more general and a higher reputation 
 than perhaps any English Poet ever attained during his life*- 
 time, are know^n to the judicious. And as well known is it 
 to themj that the undue exertion of these arts, is the cause 
 why Pope has for some time held a rank in literature, to 
 which, if he had not been seduced by an over-love of imme- 
 diate popularity, and had confided more in his native genius, 
 he never could have descended. He bewitched the nation 
 by his melody, and dazzled it by his polished style, and was 
 himself blinded by his own success. Having wandered from 
 liumanity in his Eclogues with boyish inexperience, the 
 praise, which these compositions obtained, tempted him into 
 a belief that nature was not to be trusted, at least in pastoral 
 
 ^ This opinion seems actually to have been entertained by Adam Smith, 
 the worst critic, David Hume not excepted, that Scotland, a soil to which this 
 «ort of weed seems natural; has produced. • 
 
357 
 
 Poetry. To prove this by example, he put his friend Gay 
 upon writing those Eclogues which the Author intended to 
 be burlesque. The Instigator of the work, and his Admirers, 
 could perceive in them nothing but what was ridiculous. 
 Nevertheless, though these Poems contain some odious and 
 even detestable passages, the effect, as Dr. Johnson well 
 observes, ^' of reality and truth became conspicuous eve?i 
 when the intention was to shew them grovelling and degrad- 
 ing." These Pastorals, ludicrous to those who prided 
 themselves upon their refinement, in spite of those disgusting 
 passages " became popular, and were read with delight as 
 j^ust representations of rm-al manners and occupations,'* 
 
 Something less than 6o years after the publication of 
 the Paradise Lost appeared Thomson's Winter; which was 
 speedily followed by his other Seasons. It is a work of in- 
 spiration; much of it is written from himself^ and nobly from 
 himself. How was it received ? " It was no sooner read,'* 
 says one of his contemporary Biographers, '' than universally 
 admired : those only excepted who had not been used to 
 feel, or to look for any thing in poetry, beyond a jmnt of 
 satirical or epigrammatic wit, a smart antitJiesis richly trimmed 
 with rhyme, or the softness of an elegiac complaint. To such 
 his manly classical spirit could not readily commend itself; 
 till, after a more attentive perusal, they had got the better 
 of their prejudices, and either acquired or affected a truer 
 taste. A few others stood aloof, merely because they had 
 long before fixed the articles of their poetical creed, and re- 
 signed themselves to an absolute despair of ever seeing any 
 thino- nevv^ and original. These were somewhat mortified to 
 find their notions disturbed by the appearance of a poet, whu 
 seemed to owe nothing but to nature and his own genius. 
 But, in a short time^ the applause became unanimous; ewtry 
 
or o 
 
 one wondering how so many pictures, and pictures so fami}iar> 
 should have moved them but faintly to what they felt in'^his 
 descriptions. His digressions too, the overflowings of a 
 tender benevolent heart, charmed the reader no less ; leaving 
 him in doubt, whether he should more admire the Poet or 
 love the Man.** 
 
 This case appears to bear strongly against us : — but we 
 must distinguish between wonder and legitimate admiration. 
 The. subject of the work is the changes produced in the ap- 
 pearances of nature by the revolution of the year : and, by 
 undertaking to write in verse, Thomson pledged himself to 
 treat his subject as became a Poet. Now it is remarkable 
 that, excepting a passage or two in the Windsor Forest of 
 Pope, and some delightful pictures in the Poems of Lady 
 Winchelsea, the Poetry of the period intervening between 
 the publication of the Paradise Lost and the Seasons does 
 not contain a single new image of external nature ; and 
 scarcely presents a familiar one from which it can be inferred 
 that the eye of the Poet had been steadily fixed upon his 
 object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work 
 upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination. To what alow 
 state knowledge of the most obvious and important pheno- 
 mena had sunk, is evident from the style in which Dryden 
 has executed a description of Night in one of his Tragedies, 
 and Pope his translation of the celebrated moon-light scene 
 in the Iliad. A blind man^ in the habit of attending accu- 
 rately to descriptions casually dropped from the lips of those 
 around him, might easily depict these appearances with more 
 truth. Dryden's lines are vague, bombastic, and senseless^ ; 
 
 * Cortes alone, in a nighUgown, 
 All things are husli'd as Nature's self lay dead : 
 The nioimtains seem to nod their drowsy head : 
 
.359 
 
 those of Pope, though he had Homer to guide him, are 
 throughout false and contradictory. The verses of Dryden, 
 once highly celebrated, are forgotten ; those of Pope still re- 
 tarn their hold upon public estimation, — nay, there is not a 
 passage of descriptive poetry, which at this day finds so many 
 and such ardent admirers. Strange to think of an Enthu- 
 siast, as may have been the case with thousands, reciting 
 those verses under the cope of a moon-hght sky, without 
 having his raptures in the least disturbed by a suspicion of 
 their absurdity. — If these two distinguished Writers could 
 habitually think that the visible universe was of so little con- 
 sequence to a Poet, that it was scarcely necessary for him to 
 cast his eyes upon it, we may be assured that those passages 
 of the elder Poets which faithfully and poetically describe the 
 phenomena of nature, were not at that time holden in much 
 estimation, and that there was little accurate attention paid 
 to these appearances. 
 
 Wonder is the natural product of Ignorance ; and as the 
 soil was i7i such good condition at the time of the publication of 
 the Seasons, the crop was doubtless abundant. Neither indivi- 
 duals nor nations become corrupt all at once, nor are they en- 
 lightened in a moment, Thomson was an inspired Poet, but 
 he could not work miracles ; in cases where the art of seeing had 
 in some degree been learned, the teacher would further the pro- 
 ficiency of his pupils, but he could do little more^ though so far 
 does vanity assist men in acts of self-deception that many would 
 often fancy they recognized a likeness when they knew nothing 
 
 The little Birds in dreams their songs repeat, 
 And sleeping Flovv-ers beneath the Night-dew sweat: 
 Even Lust and Envy sleep ; yet Love denies 
 Reiit to my soul, and slumber to my eyes. 
 
 Vri/den^s Indian E/npcror. 
 
360 
 
 of the original. Having shewn that much of what his Biographer 
 deemed genuine admiration must in fact have been Wind won- 
 derment, — how is the rest to be accounted for? — Thomson was 
 fortunate in the very title of his Poem, which seemed to 
 bring it home to the prepared sympathies of ever}^ one : in 
 the next place, notwithstanding his high powers, he writer a 
 vicious style ; and his false ornaments are exactly of that 
 kind which would be most likely to strike the undiscerning. 
 He likewise abounds with sentimental common-places, that 
 from the manner in which they were brought forward bore an 
 imposing air of novelty. In any well- used Copy of the Seasons 
 the Book generally opens of itself with the rhapsody on love, 
 or with one of the stories, (perhaps Damon and Musidora) ' 
 these also are prominent in our Collections of Extracts; andare 
 the parts of his Works which^ after all, were probably most 
 efficient in first recommending the Author to general notice. 
 Pope, repaying praises which he had received, and wishing to 
 extol him to the highest, onl}^ styles him " an elegant and 
 philosophical Poet ;*' nor are we able to collect any imques- 
 tionable proofs that the true characteristics of Thomson's 
 genius as an imaginative Poet w^ere perceived, till the elder 
 Warton, almost 40 Years after the publication of the Seasons, 
 pointed them out by a note in his Essa}'' on the life and writ- 
 ings of Pope. In the Castle of Indolence (of which Gray 
 speaks so coldly) these characteristics were almost as con- 
 spicuously displayed, and in verse more harmonious and dic- 
 tion more pure. Yet that fine Poem was neglected on its 
 appearance, and is at this day the delight only of a Few ! 
 
 When Thomson died, Collins breathed his regrets into an 
 Elegiac Poem, in which he pronounces a poetical curse upon 
 him who should regard with insensibility the place where the , 
 Poet's remains were deposited. The Poems of the mourner 
 
361 
 
 himself have now passed through innumerable Editions, and 
 are universally known ; but if, when Collins died, the same 
 kind of imprecation had been pronounced by a surviving ad- 
 mirer, small is the number whom it would not have compre- 
 hended. The notice which his poems attained during his 
 life-time was so small, and of course the sale so insignificant, 
 that not long before his death he deemed it right to repay to 
 the Bookseller the sum which he had advanced for them, 
 and threw the Edition into the fire. 
 
 Next in importance to the Seasons of Thomson, though at 
 considerable distance from that work in order of time, come 
 the Reliques of Ancient English Poetry; collected, new- 
 modelled, and in many instances (if such, a contradiction in 
 terms may be used) composed, by the editor. Dr. Percyo 
 This Work did not steal silently into the world, as is evident 
 from the number of legendary tales, which appeared not long 
 after its publication ; and which were modelled, as the 
 Authors persuaded themselves, after the old Ballad. The 
 Compilation was however ill-suited to the then existing taste 
 of City society ; and Dr. Johnson, mid the little senate to 
 which he gave laws, was not sparing in his exertions to make 
 it an object of contempt. The Critic triumphed, the legen- 
 dary imitators were deservedly disregarded, and, as un^ 
 deservedly, their ill-imitated models sank, in this Country, 
 into temporary neglect ; while Burger, and other able Wri- 
 ters of Germany, were translating, or imitating, these Rehques, 
 and composing, with the aid of inspiration thence derived, 
 Poems, which are the delight of the German nation. Dr. 
 Percy was so abashed by the ridicule flung upon his labours 
 from the ignorance and insensibility of the Persons vv/ith 
 whom he lived, that, though while he was writing under a 
 mask he had not wanted resolution to follow his genius into 
 
tlieregionsof true simplicity and genuine pathos, (as is evinced 
 by the exquisite ballad of Sir Cauline and by many other 
 pieces) 3^et, when he appeared in his own person and cha- 
 racter as a poetical writer, he adopted, as in the tale of the 
 Hermit of Warkworth, a diction scarcely in any one of its fea- 
 tures distinguishable from the vague, the glossy, and unfeel- 
 ing language of his day. I mention this remarkable fact 
 with regret, esteeming the genius of Dr. Percy in this kind 
 of writing superior to that of any other man b}'' whom, in 
 modern times^ it has been cultivated. That even Burger, (to 
 whom Klopstock gave, in my hearing, a commendation 
 which he denied to Goethe and Schiller, pronouncing him to 
 be a genuine Poet, and one of the few among the Germans 
 whose works would last) had not the'^fine sensibility of Percy, 
 might be shewn from many passages, in which he has deserted 
 his original only to go astray. For example, 
 
 Now daj'C was gone, and night was come. 
 And all were fast asleepe, 
 AH, save the Ladye Erameline, 
 Who sate in her bowre to weepe : 
 
 And soone shee heard her true Lovers voice 
 Low whispering at the walle, 
 Awake, awake, my deare Ladye, 
 'Tis I thy true-love call. 
 
 Which is thus tricked out and dilated, 
 
 Als nun die Nacht Gebirg' und Thai 
 Vermummt in Rabenschatlen, 
 Und Hochburgs Lampen uber-all 
 Schon ausgeflimmert batten, 
 Und alles tief entschlafen war ; 
 Doch nur das Fraulein immerdar, 
 Veil Fieberangst, noch wachie, 
 Und seinen Ritter dachte : 
 
Da horcli ! Ein siisser Liebeston 
 Kam leis enipor geflogen. 
 " Ho, Trudchen, lio ! Da bin ich schon ! 
 Risch auf ! Dich aiigezogen!" 
 
 But from humble ballads we must ascend to heroics. 
 
 All hail Macpherson ! hail to thee, S«re of Ossian ! The 
 Phantom was begotten by the snug embrace of an impudent 
 Highlander upon a cloud of tradition- — it travelled south- 
 wardj where it was greeted with acclamation, and the thin 
 Consistence took its course through Europe, upon the breath 
 of popular applause. The Editor of the ^' Reliques" had 
 indirectly preferred a claim to the praise of invention by not 
 concealing that his supplementary labours were considerable: 
 how selfish his conduct contrasted with that of the disinter- 
 ested Gael, who, like Lear, gives his kingdom away, and is 
 content to become a pensioner upon his own issue for a 
 beggarly pittance ! — Open this far-famed Book ! — I have 
 done so at random, and the beginning of the " Epic Poem 
 Temora," in 8 Books, presents itself. ^' The blue waves of 
 Ullin roll in light. The green hills are covered with day. 
 Trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze. Grey torrents 
 pour their noisy streams. Two green hills with aged oaks 
 surround a narrow plain. The blue course of a stream is 
 there. On its banks stood Cairbar of Atha. His spear 
 supports the king ; the red eyes of his fear are sad. Cormac 
 rises on his soul with all his ghastly wounds/' Precious 
 memorandums from the pocket-book of the blind Ossian ! 
 
 If it be unbecoming, as I acknowledge that for the most 
 part it is, to speak disrespectfully of Vv^orks that have en- 
 joyed for a length of time a widely spread reputation, without 
 
 /^ 
 
o 
 
 64 
 
 at the yame time producing irrefragable proofs of their un- 
 worthiness, let me be forgiven upon this occasion. — Having 
 had the good fortune to be born and reared in a mountain- 
 ous Country, from my very childhood I have felt the falsehood 
 that pervades the volumes imposed upon the World under 
 the name of Ossian. From what I saw with my own eyes, 
 I knew that the imagery was spurious. In nature every 
 thing is distinct, yet nothing defined into absolute independ- 
 ant singleness. In Macpherson's work it is exactly the re- 
 verse; every thing (that is not stolen) is in this manner de- 
 fined, insulated, dislocated, deadened, — yet nothing distinct. 
 It will always be so when words are substituted for things. 
 To say that the characters never could exist, that the man- 
 ners are impossible, and that a dream has more substance than 
 the whole state of society ;, as there depicted, is doing nothing 
 more than pronouncing a censure wliich Macpherson defied ; 
 when, with the steeps of Morven before his eyes, he could 
 talk so familiarly of his Car-borne heroes ; — Of Morven, 
 which, if one may judge from its appearance at the distance 
 of a few miles, contains scarcely an acre of ground sufficiently 
 accommodating for a sledge to be trailed along its surface. — 
 Mr. Malcolm Laing has ably shewn that the diction of this 
 pretended translation is a motley assembl}^ from all quar- 
 ters ; but he is so fond of making out parallel passages as 
 to call poor Macpherson to account for his very " ands'^ and 
 his '' bids /" and he has weakened his argument by conduct- 
 ing it as if he thought that ever)^ striking resemblance was a 
 conscious plagiarism. It is enough that the coincidences are 
 too remarkable for its being probable or possible that they 
 could arise in different minds without communication between 
 them. Now as the Translators of the Bible, Shakespeare, 
 Milton, and Pope, could not be indebted to Macpherson, it 
 
S65 
 
 follows that he must have owed his fine feathers to them ; 
 unless we are prepared gravely to assert, with Madame de 
 Stael, thatmanj'of the characteristic beautiesof ourmostcele- 
 brated English Poets, are derived from the ancient Finsallian; 
 ill which case the modern translator would have been but 
 givmg back to Ossian his own. — It is consistent that Lucien 
 Buonaparte, who could censure Milton for having surrounded 
 Satan in the infernal regions with courtly and regal splen- 
 dour, should pronounce the modern Ossian to be the glory 
 of Scotland ;— a Country that has produced a Dunbar, a 
 Buchanan, a Thomson^ and a Burns ! These opinions are of 
 ill omen for the Epic ambition of him who has given them to 
 the world. 
 
 Yet, much as these pretended treasures of antiquity 
 have been admired, they have been wholly uninfluen- 
 tial upon the literature of the Country. No succeeding 
 Writer appears to have caught from them a ray of inspira- 
 tion ; no Author in the least distinguished, has ventured 
 formally to imitate them — except the Boy^ Chatterton, 
 on their first appearance. He had perceived, from the 
 successful trials which he himself had made in literary 
 forgery, how few critics were able to distinguish between a 
 real ancient medal and a counterfeit of modern manufacture; 
 and he set himself to the work of filling a Magazine with 
 Saxon poemsy — counterparts of those of Ossian, as like his 
 as one of his misty stars is to another. This incapability 
 to amalgamate with the literature of the Island, is, in my es- 
 timation, a decisive proof that the book is essentially unnatural; 
 nor should I require any other to demonstrate it to be a. 
 forgery, audacious as worthless. — Contrast, in this respect, 
 the effect of Macpherson's publication with the Reliques of 
 
o 
 
 GG 
 
 Perc}^, so unassuming, so modest in their pretensions !— I 
 have ah-eady stated how much Germany is indebted to this 
 latter work ; and for our own Country, its Poetry has 
 been absolutely redeemed by it. I do not think that there 
 is an able Writer in verse of the present day who would not 
 be proud to acknowledge his obligations to the Reliques ; I 
 know that it is so with my friends ; and^ for myself, I am 
 happy in this occasion to make a public avowal of my own. 
 Dr. Johnson, more fortunate in his contempt of the labours 
 of Macpherson than those of his modest friend, was solicited 
 not long after to furnish Prefaces biographical and critical for 
 some of the most eminent English Poets. The Booksellers 
 took upon themselves to make the collection; they referred 
 probably to the most popular miscellanies, and, unquestiona- 
 bly, to their Books of accounts; and decided upon the claim 
 of Authors to be admitted into a body of the wiost Eminent^ 
 from the familiarit}^ of their names with the readers of that 
 day, and b)^ the profits, v/hich, from the sale of his works, each 
 had brought and vvas bringing to the Trade. The Editor 
 was allowed a limited exercise of discretion, and the Authors 
 whom he recommended are scarcely to be mentioned without 
 a smile. We open the volume of Prefatory Lives, and to our 
 astonishment the Jirst name we find is that of Cowley ! — 
 What is become of the Morning-star of English Poetiy ? 
 Where is the bright Elizabethan Constellation ? Or, if 
 Names are more acceptable than images, where is the ever- 
 to-be-honoured Chaucer? where is Spenser? where Sydney? 
 and lastly where he, whose rights as a Poet, contradistin- 
 guished from those which he is universally allowed to possess 
 as a Dramatist, we have vindicated, where Shakespeare ? — 
 These, and a multitude of others not unworthy to be placed 
 aear them, their contemporaries and successors, we have 7wt. 
 
367 
 
 But in their stead, we have (could better be expected when 
 precedence was to be settled by an abstract of reputation at 
 any given period made as in the case before us?) we have 
 Roscommon, and Stepney, and Phillips, and Walsh, and 
 Smith, and Duke, and King, and Spratt— Halifax, Granville, 
 Sheffield, Congreve, Broome, and other reputed Magnates ; 
 Writers in metre utterly worthless and useless, except for oc- 
 casions like the present, when their productions are referred 
 to as evidence what a small quantity of brain is necessary 
 to procure a considerable stock of admiration, provided 
 the aspirant will accommodate himself to the likings and 
 fashions of his day. 
 
 As I do not mean to bring down this retrospect to our 
 own times^ it may with propriety be closed at the era of this 
 distinguished event. From the literature of other ages and 
 countries, proofs equally cogent might have been adduced 
 that the opinions announced in the former part of this 
 Essay are founded upon truth. It was not an agreeable 
 office, nor a prudent undertaking, to declare them, but 
 their importance seemed to render it a duty. It may 
 still be asked, where lies the particular relation of what 
 has been said to these Volumes ? — The question will be 
 easily answered by the discerning Reader who is aid 
 enough to remember the taste that was prevalent when some 
 of these Poems were first published, 17 years ago; who has 
 also observed to what degree the Poetry of this Island has 
 since that period been coloured by them ; and who is further 
 aware of the unremitting hostility with which, upon some 
 principle or other, they have each and all been opposed. A 
 sketch of my own notion of the constitution of Fame, has 
 been given ; and, as far as concerns myself, I have cause to 
 
368 
 
 be satisfied. The love, the admiration, the indifference, the 
 slight, the aversion, and even the contempt, with which these 
 Poems have been received, knowing, as I do, the source within 
 my own mind, from which they have proceeded, and the la- 
 bour and pains, which, when labour and pains appeared need- 
 ful, have been bestowed upon them, — must all, if I think con- 
 sistently, be received as pledges and tokens, bearing the same 
 general impression though widely different in value;— they are 
 all proofs that for the present time I have not laboured in 
 vain ; and afford assurances, more or less authentic, that the 
 products of my industry will endure. 
 
 If there be one conclusion more forcibly pressed upon us 
 than another by the review which has been given of the 
 fortunes and fate of Poetical Works, it is this, — that every 
 Author,, as far as he is great and at the same time original^ 
 has had the task of creating the taste by which he is to be 
 enjoyed : so has it been, so will it continue to be. This re- 
 mark was long since made to me by the philosophical Friend 
 for tlie separation of whose Poems from my own I have 
 previously expressed my regret. The predecessors of an 
 original Genius of a high order will have smoothed the way 
 for all that he has in common with them ; — and much he will 
 have in common ; but, for what is peculiarly his own, he 
 will be called upon to clear and often to shape his own 
 road : — he will be in the condition of Hannibal among the 
 Alps. 
 
 And where lies the real difficulty of creating that taste by 
 which a truly original Poet is to be relished ? Is it in breaking 
 the bonds of custom, in overcoming the prejudices of false 
 refinement, and displacing the aversions of inexperience ? 
 
369 
 
 Or, if he labour for an object which here and elsewliere I have 
 proposed to myself, does it consist in divesting the Reader of 
 the pride that induces him to dwell upon those points 
 wherein Men differ from each other, to the exclusion of those 
 in which all Men are alike, or the same; and in making him 
 ashamed of the vanity that renders him insensible of the ap- 
 propriate excellence which civil arrangements, less unjust than 
 might appear, and Nature illimitable in her bounty, have 
 conferred on Men who ^tand below him in the scale of 
 society? Finally, does it lie in establishing that dominion 
 over the spirits of Readers by which they are to be humbled 
 and humanized, in order that they ma}^ be purified and 
 exalted ? 
 
 If these ends are to be attained by the mere communication 
 o^ knowledge J it does noHie here. — Taste, I would remind the 
 Reader, like Imagination, is a word which has been forced 
 to extend its services far beyond the point to which philoso- 
 phy would have confined thenu It is a metaphor^ taken 
 from a passive sense of the human body, and transferred to 
 things which are in their essence not passive, — to intellectual 
 acts and operations. The word, imagination, has been over- 
 strained, from impulses honourable to mankind, to meet the 
 demands of the faculty w^hich is perhaps the noblest of our 
 nature. In the instance of taste, the process has been re- 
 versed ; and from the prevalence of dispositions at once inju- 
 rious and discreditable, — being no other than that selfishness 
 which is the child of apathy, — which^ as Nations decline in 
 productive and creative power, makes them value themselves 
 upon a presumed refinement of judging. Poverty of language 
 is the primary cause of the use which we make of the word, 
 imagination; but the word, Taste, has been stretched to the 
 
 VOL. !• ^ B IS 
 
370 
 
 sense which it bears in modern Europe by habits of self-con- 
 ceit, inducing that inversion in the order of things whereby 
 a passive faculty is made paramount among the faculties 
 conversant with the fine arts. Proportion and congruity, 
 the requisite knowledge being supposed, are subjects upon 
 which taste may be trusted ; it is competent to this office ; — 
 for in its intercourse with these the mind is passive^ and is 
 affected painfully or pleasurably as by an instinct. But the 
 profound and the exquisite in feeling, the lofty and universal 
 in thought and imagination ; or in ordinary language the 
 pathetic and the sublime ; — are neither of them, accurately 
 speaking, objects of a faculty which could ever without a 
 sinking in the spirit of Nations have been designated by the 
 metaphor — Taste. And why ? Because without the exertion 
 of a co-operating ^?otu^r in the mind of the Reader, there can 
 
 ft 
 
 be po adequate sympathy with either of these emotions : . 
 without this auxiliar impulse elevated or profound passion 
 cannot exist. 
 
 Passion, it must be observed, is derived from a w^ord which 
 signifies, suffering ; but the connection which suffering has 
 with effort, with exertion, and action^ is immediate and 
 inseparable. How strikingly is this property of human nature 
 exhibited by the fact, that, in popular language, to be in a 
 passion, is to be angry ! — But, 
 
 *^ Anger in Lasty words or blovcs 
 Itself dibchargcs on its foes." 
 
 To be moved, then, by a passion, is to be excited, often to ex- 
 ternal, and always to internal^ effort ; whether for the con- 
 tinuance and strengthening of the passion, or for its sup* 
 
371 
 
 pression, accordingly as the course wlilch it takes may 
 be painful or pleasurable. If the latter, the soul must 
 contribute to its support, or it never becomes vivid,— and 
 soon languishes, and dies. And this brings us to the point. 
 If every great Poet with whose writings men are familiar, in 
 the highest exercise of his genius^ before he can be thoroughly 
 enjoyed, has to call forth and to communicate potver^ this 
 service, in a still greater degree, falls upon an originals 
 Writer, at his first appearance in the world. — Of genias 
 the only proof is, the act of doing well what is worth}'- 
 to be done, and what was never done before : Of genius, 
 in the fine arts, the only infallible sign is the widening 
 the sphere of human sensibility, for the delight, honor, and 
 benefit of human nature. Genius is the introduction of a 
 new element into the intellectual universe : or, if that be not 
 allowed, it is the application of powers to objects on which 
 they had not before been exercised, or the employment 
 of them in such a manner as to produce effects hitherto 
 unknown. What is all this but an advance, or a conquest, 
 made by the soul of the Poet ? Is it to be supposed that the 
 Reader can make progress of this kind, like an Indian Prince 
 or General — stretched on his Palanquin, and borne by bis 
 Slaves ? No, he is invigorated and inspirited by his Leader, 
 in order that he may exert himself, for he cannot proceed in 
 quiescence, he cannot be carried like a dead weight. There- 
 fore to create taste is to call forth and bestow power, of 
 which knowledge is the effect ; and there lies the true 
 difficulty. 
 
 As the pathetic participates of an animal sensation, it 
 might seem— tliat, if the springs of this emotion were genuine, 
 all men, possessed of competent knowledge of the facts and 
 
circumstances, would be instantaneously affected. And, 
 doubtless, in the works ofeverj^true Poet will be found passages 
 of that species of excellence, which is proved by effects imme- 
 diate and universal. But there are emotions of the pathetic 
 that are simple and direct, and others — that are complex 
 and revolutionary ; some — to which the heart yields with 
 gentleness, others, — against which it struggles with pride : 
 these varieties are infinite as the combinations of circum- 
 stance and the constitutions of character. Remember, also, 
 that the medium through which, in poetry, the heart is to 
 be affected — is language ; a thing subject to endless fluctua* 
 tions and arbitrary associations. The genius of the Poet 
 melts these down for his purpose ; but they retain their shape 
 and quality to him who is not capable of exerting, within his 
 own mind, a corresponding energy. There is also a medi- 
 tative^ as well as a human, pathos ; an enthusiastic, as well as 
 an ordinary^ sorrow ; a sadness that has its seat in the depths 
 of reason, to which the mind cannot sink gently of itself— 
 but to which it must descend bj^ treading the steps of thought. 
 And for the sublime, — if we consider what are the cares 
 that occupy the passing da}^, and how remote is the practice 
 and the course of life from the sources of sublimity, in the 
 soul of Man, can it be wondered that there is little existing 
 preparation for a Poet charged with a new mission to extend 
 its kingdom, and to augment and spread its enjoyments ? 
 
 Away, then, with the senseless iteration of the woxA, popu- 
 lar^ applied to new works in Poetry, as if there were no test 
 of excellence in this first of the fine arts but that all Men 
 should run after its productions, as if urged by an appetite, 
 or constrained by a spell ! — The qualities of writing best 
 fitted for eager reception are either such as startle the 
 
373 
 
 world into attention by their audacity and extravagance . 
 or they are chiefly of a superficial kind, lying upon the 
 surfaces of manners ; or arising out of a selection and 
 arrangement of incidents, by which the mind is kept upon 
 the stretch of curiosity, and the fancy amused without 
 the trouble of thought. But in every thing which is to 
 send the soul into herself, to be admonished of her weakness 
 or to be made conscious of her power ;— wherever life and 
 nature are described as operated upon by the creative or 
 abstracting virtue of the imagination ; wherever the instinctive 
 wisdom of antiquity and her heroic passions uniting, in the 
 heart of the Poet, with the meditative wisdom of later ages, 
 have produced that accord of sublimated humanity, which is 
 at once a history of the remote past and a prophetic annun- 
 ciation of the remotest future, there^ the Poet must reconcile 
 himself for a season to few and scattered hearers. — Grand 
 thoughts, (and Shakespeare must often have sighed over this 
 truth) as they are most naturally and most fitly conceived in 
 solitude, so can they not be brought forth in the midst of 
 plaudits without some violation of their sanctity. Go to a 
 silent exhibition of the productions of the Sister Art, and be 
 convinced that the qualities which dazzle at first sight, and 
 kindle the admiration of the multitude, are essentially differ- 
 ent from those by which permanent influence is secured. 
 Let us not shrink from following up these principles as far 
 as they will carry us, and conclude with observing — that 
 there never has been a period, and perhaps never will be, in 
 which vicious poetry, of some kind or other, has not excited 
 more zealous admiration, and been far more generally read, 
 than good; but this advantage attends the good^ that the 
 individual, as well as the species, survives from age to age : 
 whereas, of the depraved, though the species be immortal 
 
374 
 
 the individual quickl}^ perishes; the object of present ad- 
 miration vanishes, being supplanted by some other as easily 
 produced; which, though no better, brings with it at least 
 the irritation of novelty, — with adaptation, more or less 
 skilful, to the changing humours of the majority of those 
 who are most at leisure to regard poetical works when they 
 first solicit their attention. 
 
 Is it the result of the whole that, in the opinion of the 
 Writer, the judgment of the People is not to be respected ? 
 The thought is most injurious; and could the charge be 
 brought against him, he would repel it with indignation. 
 The People have already been justified, and their eulogium 
 pronounced by implication, w^hen it was said, above — that, 
 of ^oot/ Poetry, the individual, as well as the species^ survives. 
 And how does it survive but through the People ? what pre- 
 serves it but their intellect and their wisdom ? 
 
 (( 
 
 -Past and future, are the wings 
 
 On whose support, harmoniously conjoined, 
 Moves the great Spirit of human knowledge '* 
 
 MS. 
 
 The voice that issues from this Spirit, is that Vox populi 
 which the Deity inspires. Foolish must he be who can 
 mistake for this a local acclamation, or a transitory outcry — 
 transitory though it be for years, local though from a Nation. 
 Still more lamentable is his error, who can believe that there 
 is any thing of divine infallibility in the clamour of that 
 small though loud portion of the community, ever governed 
 by factitious influence, which, under the name of the Public, 
 passes itself, upon the unthinking, for the People. Towards 
 the Public, the Writer hopes that he feels as much deference 
 
ol5 
 
 o. 
 
 as It IS intitled to : but to the People, philosophically charac- 
 terized, and to the embodied spirit of their knowledge, so 
 far as it exists and moves, at the present, faithfully supported 
 by its two wings, the past and the future, his devout respect, 
 his reverence, is due. He offers it willingly and readily; 
 and^ this done, takes leave of his Readers, by assuring them — 
 that, if he were not persuaded that the Contents of these 
 Volumes, and the Work to which they are subsidiary, 
 evinced something of the *^ Vision and the Faculty divine ;'' 
 and that, both in words and things^ they will operate in their 
 degree, to extend the domain of sensibility for the delight, 
 the honor, and the benefit of human nature, notwithstanding 
 the many happy hours which he has employed in their com- 
 position, and the manifold comforts and enjoyments they 
 have procured to him, he would not, if a wish could do it, 
 save them from immediate destruction ; — from becoming at 
 this moment, to the world, as a thing that had never been. 
 
 THE END OF VOLUME I* 
 
T. Davison, Lombard-street, 
 Whitefriarfs, London. 
 
 ■ HT '^' w^uw mw 
 

 aJ 
 
^# 
 
 ^ 
 
 .i.,.,'i : r