FRANCES E. BENNETT. 
 
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 COLERIDGE 
 
 COLLECTION 
 
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LYRICAL BALLADS, v 
 
 OTHER POEMS: 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. ^ 
 
 BY W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Quam nihil ad genium, Papiniane, tuum! 
 
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 VOL. I. 
 
 PROM THE LONDON SECOND EDITION. 
 
 ^Bila&elpjjia: 
 
 PRINTED AND SOLD BY JAMES HUMPHREYS, 
 At the N.W. Corner of Walnut and Dock-atreet. 
 
 1802. 
 
• -J 
 
 v , l - ; 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Vol. L 
 
 Expostulation and Reply ----- Page 141 
 The Tables turned 5 an Evening Scene on the same 
 
 Subject - - ■- 14J 
 
 Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch - - 145 
 
 The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - 146 
 
 The Last of the Flock ----- 107 
 Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands 
 
 near the Lake of Esthwaite - - - - 51 
 
 The Foster-mother's Tale - 45 
 
 Goody Blake and Harry Gill - ye 
 
 The Thorn ------- 95 
 
 We are Seven 
 
 90 
 
 Anecdote for Fathers ----- g- 
 
 Lines written at a small Distance from my House, 
 and sent by my little Boy to the Person to whom 
 
 they are addressed - g 
 
 The Female Vagrant - - - - - 6 X 
 
 The Dungeon - -- - - - Jia 
 
 Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman - 82 
 
 Lines written in early Spring - _ ^ g* 
 
 The Nightingale, written in April 1798 - - c§ 
 
 Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames 139 
 
 The Idiot Boy - - - _ - 1Ig 
 
 Love - - - - -•- -.« j 
 
 The Mad Mother - - - i - 1 14 
 
 The Ancient Manner - - - . _ ,- 
 
 On Revisiting the Wye - - - - Je * 
 
 The Convict - - .. - - 150 
 
 M * 
 
 83839 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 AT the same time that the Editor begs leave to offer the 
 following as the cause of the little delay that has taken 
 place in the Publication of these Poems, he begs also re- 
 spectfully to present his Thanks to those who have been pleased 
 to favour them with their encouragement by Subscription. 
 
 So rapid appears to have been the Sale of these Poems in 
 London after the Publication of the Second Volume the 
 last summer, that another Edition has been already since 
 published. This, containing the following lengthy Preface, 
 the beautiful Ode to Love, and some additional explana- 
 tory Notes, more than the former Edition, did not reach 
 this Country till after the present one had been put to Press, 
 and the First Volume nearly finished. Some little delay, has 
 arisen from this circumstance, but, at the same time, it has 
 enabled the Editor to give the Work compleat, which other- 
 wise would not have been the case j and though attended with 
 considerable more expence than he calculated upon when he 
 put it to press, it will be delivered to the Subscribers at the 
 Price mentioned in his Proposals. The only difference that 
 now exists between this and the last London Edition is, that 
 the Poem entitled the Convict is retained in this Edition, 
 but omitted in that, and that the Arrangement of the Poems 
 in the First Volume somewhat differs. The Reader, however, 
 by turning to them as they follow in the preceding Table of 
 Contents, will have them as they are arranged in the last 
 London Edition. 
 
 JAMES HUMPHREYS. 
 Philadelphia, ? 
 1802. i 
 
 January, 1802. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THE First Volume of these Poems has already been submitted 
 to general perusal. It was published as an experiment which, I 
 hoped, might be of some use to ascertain, how far, by fitting to 
 Metrical arrangement a selection of the real language of men in 
 a state of vivid sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity 
 of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may rationally endea- 
 vour to impart. 
 
 I had'formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable effect 
 of those Poems : I flattered myse!f, that they who should be plea- 
 sed with them would read them with more than common plea- 
 sure 5 and on the other hand I was well aware, that by those who 
 should dislike them they would be read with more than common 
 dislike. The result has differed from my expectation in this on- 
 ly, that I have pleased a greater number than I ventured to hope 
 I should please. 
 
 For the sake of variety, and from a consciousness of my own 
 weakness, I was induced to request the assistance of a friend, who 
 furnished me with the Poems of the Ancient Mariner, the 
 Foster Mother's Tale, the Nightingale, the Dun- 
 geon, and the Poem entitled Love. I should not however, have 
 requested this assistance, had I not believed, that the Poems of my 
 friend would, in a great measure, have the same tendency as my 
 own, and that though there would be found a difference, there 
 would be found no discordance in the colours of our stvle : as 
 our opinions on the subject of Poetry do almost entirely coin- 
 cide. 
 
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 $% £* *? G 'Q t\ 
 
 & •!> O « -.J 
 
vi PREFACE. 
 
 Several of my friends are anxious for the success of these Po- 
 ems from a belief, that if the views with which they were com- 
 posed were indeed realized, a Class of Poetry would be produced, 
 well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not unim- 
 portant in the multiplicity and in the quality of its moral rela- 
 tions ; and on this account, they have advised me to prefix a sys- 
 tematic defence of the theory upon which the Poems were written. 
 But I was unwilling to undertake the task, because I knew that 
 on this occasion, the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments, 
 since I might be suspected of having been principally influenced 
 by the selfish, and foolish hope, of reasoning him into an appro- 
 tion of these particular Po.ms ; and I was still more unwilling 
 to undertake the task, because, adequately to display my opini- 
 ons, and fully to enforce my arguments, would require a space 
 wholly disproportionate to the nature of a Preface. For to treat 
 the subject with the clearness and coherence, cf which I believe it 
 susceptible, it would be necessary, to give a full account of the 
 present state of the public taste in this country, and to deter- 
 mine how far this taste is healthy or depraved ; which again 
 could not be determined, without pointing cut in what manner 
 language and the human mind act and re-act on each other, and 
 without retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, but 
 likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether declined to 
 enter regularly upon this defence ; yet I am sensible, that there 
 would be some impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Pub- 
 lic, without a few-words of introduction, Poems so materially 
 different from those, upon which general approbation is at pre- 
 sent bestowed. 
 
 It is supposed, that by the act of writing in Verse, an Author 
 makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain known 
 ■habits of association } that he not only thus apprizes the Reader 
 that certain classes cf ideas and expressions will be found in his 
 book, but that others will be car.fully excluded. This exponent 
 or symbol held forth by Metrical language, must in different aeras 
 of literature have excited very different expectations : for exam- 
 ple, in the age of Catullus Terence and Lucretius, and that of 
 Statius or Claudian, and in our own country in the age of 
 Shakcspear, and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and 
 
PREFACE. vu 
 
 Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to deter- 
 mine the exact import of the- promise which, by the act of 
 writing in Verse, an Author in the present day makes to his 
 Reader 5 but I am certain it will appear to many persons, that I 
 have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus voluntarily 
 contracted. I hope therefore the Reader will not censure me, if I 
 attempt to state what I have proposed to myself to perform, and 
 also (as far as the limits of a Preface will permit) to explain some 
 of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of 
 my purpose ; that at least he may be spared any unpleasant feel- 
 ing of disappointment, and that I myself may be protected from 
 the most dishonorable accusation which can be brought against 
 an Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents him 
 from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or when his 
 duty is ascertained, prevents him from performing it. 
 
 The principal object then which I proposed to myself in these 
 Poems was, to make the incidents of common life interesting, 
 by tracing in them, truly, though not ostentatiously, the primary 
 laws of our Nature j chiefly as far as regards th? manner in 
 which we associate ideas in a 6tut«©f excitement. Low ?nd rus- 
 tic life was generally chosen, because in that situation, the essen- 
 tial passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can at- 
 tain their maturity, are !ess under restraint, and speak a plainer 
 and more emphatic language j because, in that situation, our ele- 
 mentary feelings exist in a state of greater simplicity, and conse- 
 quently, may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly 
 communicated j because, the manners of rural life germinate 
 from those elementary feelings ; and from the necessary character 
 of rural occupations are more easily comprehended ; and are more 
 durablej and lastly, because, in that situation, the passions of 
 men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms 
 of nature. The language too of these men is adopted (puri- 
 fied indeed from what appears to be its real defects, from all 
 lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such 
 men hourly communicate with the best objects from which 
 the best part of language is originally derived ; and because, 
 from their rank in society, and the sameness and narrow cir- 
 cle of their intercourse, being less under the action of social 
 
WM PREFACE. 
 
 vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and on- 
 elaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language arising out 
 of repeated experience and regular feelings is a more permanent, 
 and a far more philosophical language, than that which is 
 frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are 
 conferring honour upon themselves and their art in proportion as 
 they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and in- 
 dulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order 
 to furnish food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites of their own 
 creation.* 
 
 I cannot be insensible of «he present outcry against the trivi- 
 ality and meanness both of thought and language, which some 
 cf my contemporaries have oc asionally introduced into their Me- 
 trical compositions j and I acknowledge, that this defect where 
 it exists, is more dishonorable to the Writer's own character, 
 than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should 
 contend at the same time that it is far less pernicious in the sum 
 of its consequences. From such Verses, the Poems in these Vo- 
 lumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark of diffe- 
 rence, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not that I mean 
 to say that I always began to write with a distinct purpose for- 
 mally conceived j but I believe, that my habits of meditatioi* 
 have so formed my feelings, as that my descriptions of such ob- 
 jects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry 
 along with them a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken, 
 I can have little right to the name of a Poet. For all good Po- 
 e^ is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings j but though 
 this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached, were 
 never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man, wh?, 
 being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also 
 thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feelings 
 are modified and diiected by our thoughts, which are indeed the 
 representatives of all our past feelings ; and as by contemplating 
 the relation of these general representatives to each other, we 
 
 * It is worth white here to observe, that the affecting parts of 
 Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure and univer-* 
 sally intelligible even to this day* 
 
PREFACE. 15C 
 
 discover what is really important to men, so by the repetition 
 and continuance of this act, feelings connected with important 
 subjects will be nourished, till at length, if we be originally pos- 
 sessed of much organic sensibility, such habits of mind will be 
 produced, that by obeying blindly and mechanically the impul- 
 ses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter senti- 
 ments of such a nature, and in such connection with each 
 other, that the understanding of the being to whom we address 
 ourselves, k* he be in a healthful state of association, must ne- 
 cessarily be in some degree enlightened, his taste exalted, and 
 his affections ameliorated. 
 
 I have said that each of these Poems has a purpose. I have 
 also informed my Reader what this purpose will be found 
 principally to be ; namely, to illustrate the manner in which our 
 feelings and ideas are associated in a state of excitement. But 
 speaking in less general language, it is to follow the fluxes and 
 refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great and simple af- 
 fections of our nature. This object I have endeavoured in these 
 short essays to attain by various means; by tracing the Mater- 
 nal passion through many of its more subtle windings, as in the 
 Poems of the 1 010 t Boy and the Mad Mother j by accom- 
 panying the last struggles of a huraan being at the approach of 
 death, cleaving in solitude to life and society, as in the Poem of 
 theFoRSAKEN Indian ; by shewing asinthe Stanzas entitled 
 We are seven, the perplexity, and obscurity which in child- 
 hood attends our notion of death, or rather our utter inability to 
 admit that notion; or by displaying the strength of fraternal, or 
 to speak more philosophically, of moral attachment, when early 
 associated with the great and beautiful objects of Nature, as in 
 the Brothers; or, as in the incident of Simon Lee, by 
 placing my Reader in the way of receiving from ordinary moral 
 sensations, another and more salutary impression than we are ac- 
 customed to receive from them. It has also been part of my 
 general purpose to attempt to sketch characters under the influ- 
 ence of less impassioned feelings, as in the Ol d Man Travel-, 
 iing, the Two Thieves, &c, characters of which the ele- 
 ment are simple, belonging rather to Nature than to manners, 
 b a 
 
» PREFACE. 
 
 such as exist now, and will probably always exist, and which 
 from their constitution may be distinctly and profitably contem- 
 plated. I will not abuse the indulgence of my Reader by dwelling- 
 longer upon this subject j but it is proper that I should mention 
 one other circum&tance whi;h distinguishes these Poems from 
 the popular Poetry of the day j it is this, that the reeling therein 
 developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not 
 the action and situation to the feeling. My meaning will be ren- 
 dered perfectly intelligible by referring my Reader to the Poem* 
 entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Father, particii- 
 lirly to the last Stanza of the latter Poem. 
 
 I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me-from 
 asserting, that I point my Readers attention to this mark of 
 distinction. 1 far less for the sake of these particular Poems, thart 
 from the general importance of the subject. The subject is in- 
 deed important ! For the human mind is capable of excitement 
 without the application of gross and violent stimulants j and he 
 must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity, who 
 does not know this, and who does not further know, that one 
 being is elevated above another in proportion as he possesses 
 this capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to en* 
 deavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best 
 •ervices, in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged ; but 
 this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present 
 day : For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are 
 now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating 
 powers of the mind, and by unfitting it for all voluntary exertion, 
 to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effec- 
 tive of these causes are the great National Events which are dai- 
 ly taking place, and the encreasing accumulation/^ men in ci- 
 ties, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a era- 
 Ting for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication 
 of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and 
 manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country 
 have conformed themselves ! The invaluable works of our el- 
 der writers, I had alm-jst said the works of Shakespear and 
 JVJiltcn, are driven into neglect by frantic Novels, sickly and 
 stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant 
 
PREFACE. *f. 
 
 Stories In verse. — When I think upon this degrading thirst after 
 outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to have Spoken 
 of the feeble effort with which I have endeavoured to counter- 
 act it j and reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evily 
 I should be oppressed with no dishonorable melancholy, had I 
 not. a deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible qua- 
 lities of the human mind, and likewise of certain powers in the 
 great and permanent objects that act upon it, which are equally 
 inherent and indestructible j and did I not further add to this 
 impression a belief, that the time is approaching, when the evil 
 will be systematically opposed by men. of greater powers, ami 
 with far more distinguished, success.. 
 
 Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Po- 
 ems, I shall request the Reader's permission to apprise him of a. 
 few circumstances relating to their style, in order, among 
 other reasons, that I may not be censured for not having per- 
 formed what I never attempted. Except in a very few instances 
 the Reader will find no personifications of abstract ideas in these 
 Volumes, not that J mean to censure such personifications j they 
 may be well fitted for certain sorts of composition, but in these 
 Poems, I propose to myself to imitate-, and, as far as possible to- 
 iadopt, the very language of men ; and I do not find that such 
 personifications make any regular or natural part of that lan- 
 guage. I wish to keep my Reader in the company of flesh and 
 blood, persuaded, that by so doing, I shall interest him. Not 
 but that! believe, that others who pursue a different track, may 
 interest him likewise : Ido not interfere with their claim 5 I on- 
 ly wish to prefer a different claim of my own. Thrre will- also be 
 found in these Volumes little of what is usually called poetic dic- 
 tion ; I have taken as much pains to avoid it as others ordina- 
 rily take to produce itj this I have done for the reason already 
 alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men, and 
 further, because the pleasure, which I have proposed to myself to 
 impart, is of a kind very different from that Which is supposed 
 by many persons to be the proper object of Poetry. I do not 
 know how, without being culpably particular, I can give my 
 Reader a more exact notion of the style in which I wished these 
 Poems to be written, than by informing him, that I have at all 
 
xii PREFACE. 
 
 times endeavoured to loolc steadily at my subject, consequently, I 
 hope it will be found, that there is in these Poems little falsehood 
 of description, and that my ideas are expressed in language fitted 
 to their respective importance. Something I must have gained 
 by this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good Po- 
 etry, namely, good sense j but it has necessarily cut me oft" from 
 a large portion of phrases and figures of speech, which, from fa- 
 ther to son have long been regarded as the common inheritance 
 of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to restrict myself 
 still further, having abstained from the use of many expressi- 
 ons, in themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been 
 foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust ar« 
 connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of asso- 
 ciation to overpower. 
 
 If in a Poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a 
 single line, in which the language, though naturally arrang~d> 
 and according to the stiict laws of Metre, does not differ 
 from that of Prose, there is a numerous class of critics who, 
 when they stumble upon these Prosaisms, as they call them, ima- 
 gine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult over the 
 Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now these 
 men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will 
 conclude he must utterly reject if he wishes to be pleased with 
 these Volumes. And it would be a most easy task to prove to 
 him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good 
 Poem, even of the most elevated character, must necessarily, 
 except with reference to the Metre, in no respect differ from that 
 of good Prose, but likewise, that some of the most interesting 
 parts of the best Poems will be found to be strictly the language 
 ©f Prcse, when Piose is well written. The truth of this assertion 
 might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost all 
 the Poetical writings even of Milton himself. 1 have not space 
 for much quotation ; but, to illustrate the subject in a general 
 manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who 
 was at the head of those, who by their reasonings have attempted 
 to widen the space of separation betwixt Prcse and Metrical com- 
 position, and was more than any other man curiously elaborate 
 in the structure of his own poetic diction. 
 
PREFACE. xIU 
 
 In vain tome the smiling mornings shine, 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join, 
 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire j 
 These ears alas ! for other notes repine ; 
 A different object do these eyes require j 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mint} 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire j. 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier menj 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear } 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain. 
 J fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear 
 And weep the more because I weep in vain.. 
 
 It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet 
 which is of any value, is the lines printed in Italics : It *i3 equal-, 
 ly obvious, that except in thj rhyme> and in the use of the sin- 
 gle word « fruitless" for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the 
 language of these Unes. does in no respect differ from that of 
 
 IVoac. 
 
 Is there then, it will be asked, no essential difference between 
 the language of Prose and Metrical composicion ? I answer that 
 there neither is nor can be any essential difference. We are fond 
 of tracing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and, 
 accordingly, we call them sisters j but where shall we find bonds 
 of connection sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt 
 Metrical and Prose: composition ? They b^th speak by and to 
 the same organs j the bodies in which both of them are clothed 
 may be- said to be" of the same substance, their affections ace 
 kindred and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in 
 degree j Poetry * sheds no tears n such as Angels weep," but 
 
 * I here use the word " Poetry" (though against my oivn judg- 
 ment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with Metrical 
 composition. But much confusion bas been introduced into Criticism.by 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 natural and human tears ; she can boast of no celestial Ichor 
 that distinguishes her vital juices from those of Prose $ the same 
 human blood circulates through the veins cf them both. 
 
 If it be affirmed that Rhyme and Metrical arrangement, of 
 themselves, constitute a distinction, which overturns what I have 
 been saying on the strict affinity of Metrical language with 
 that of Prose, and paves the way for other distinctions which the 
 mind voluntarily admits, I answer, that the distinction of Rhyme 
 and Metre is regular and uniform, and not, like that which is 
 produced by what is usually called Poetic diction, arbitrary, and 
 subject to infinite caprices, up.m which no calculation whatever 
 can be made. In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy 
 of the Poet respecting what imrgery or diction he may choose to 
 connect with the passion, whereas in thi other, the Metre obeys 
 certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly sub- 
 mit, because hey are certain, and because, no interference is mads 
 by them with the passion, but such as the concurring testimony 
 of ages has shewn to heighten and impr.we the pleasure which, 
 CO-exists with it. 
 
 It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, namely, 
 why, professing these opinions, have I written in Verse r ToJiJ. 
 in the first place I reply , because, however I may have restricted 
 myself, there is still left open to me, what confessedly constitutes 
 the most valuable object of all writing, whether in Prose or Verse, 
 the great and universal Passions of men, the most general and 
 interesting of their occupations, and the entire world of Nature, 
 from which I am at liberty to supply myself with endhss combi- 
 nations of forms and imagery. Now, granting for a moment, 
 that whatever is interesting in these objects may be as vividly de- 
 scribed in Prose, why am I to be condemned if to su :h descrip- 
 tion I have endeavoured to superadd the charm which, by the 
 consent of all nations, is acknowledged to exist in Metrical lan- 
 guage ? To this it will be answered that a very small [art of the 
 
 this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, 'instead of the more, pbilo- 
 iopb\cal one of Poetry and Science. %bs enly stria antithesis f* Prose 
 k Metre. 
 
PREFACE. x* 
 
 pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the Metre, and that it Is 
 injudicious to write in Metre, unless it be accompanied with the 
 other artificial distinctions of style with which Metre is usually 
 accompanied; and that by such deviation more will be lost from 
 the shock which will be thereby given to the Reader's associa- 
 tions, than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure, which he can 
 derive from the general Power of Numbers. In answer to 
 those who thus contend for the necessity of accompanying 
 Metre with certain appropriate colours of style, in order to the 
 accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who, also, in my 
 opinion, greatly under-xate the Power of Metre in itself, it 
 might, perhaps, be almost sufficient to observe, that Poems 
 are extant, written upon more humble subjects, and in a 
 more naked and simple style, than what I have aimed at, 
 which Poems have continued to give pleasure from generation to 
 generation. Now if nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the 
 fact heie mentioned affords a strong presumption, that Poems 
 somewhat less naked and simple, are capable of affording pleasure 
 a-t the present day j and all that I am now attempting is— to jus- 
 tify myself for having written under the impression of this be- 
 lief. 
 
 But I might point out various causes why, when the stile is 
 manly, and the subject of some importance, words, Metrically ar- 
 ranged, will long continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind, 
 as he, who is sensible of the extent of that pleasure, will be desi- 
 rous to impart. The end of Poetry is to produce excitement in 
 co-existence with an overbalance of pleasure. Now, by the sup- 
 position", excitement is an unusual and irregular state of the 
 mind.j ideas and feelings do not in that state succeed each other 
 in accustomed order. But, if the words by which this excite- 
 ment is produced are in themselves powerful, or the images and 
 feelings have an undue proportion of pain connected with them, 
 there is some danger, that the excitement may be carried beyond 
 its proper bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular* 
 something to which the mind has been accustomed when in an 
 unexcited, or a less excited state, cannot but have great efficacy, 
 in tempering and restraining the passion, by an intertexture of 
 ordinary feeling. This may be illustrated by appealing to the 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 Readers own experience, of the reluctance with which he comes 
 to the re-perusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or 
 the Gamester. While Shakespear's writings, in the most pa- 
 thetic scenes, never act upon us as pathetic beyond the bound* 
 of pleasure— an effect, which is in a great degree to be ascribed to 
 small, but continual, and regular impulses of pleasureable sur- 
 prise from the Metrical arrangement — On the other hand (what 
 it must be allowed will much more frequently happen) if the- 
 Poet's words should be incommensurate with the passion, and 
 inadequate to raise the Reader to a height of desirable excite- 
 ment, then (unless the Poet's choice of his Metre has been gross- 
 ly injudicious) in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader har 
 been accustomed to connect with Metre in general, and in the 
 feeling, whether chearful or melancholy, which he has been ac- 
 customed to connect with that particular movement of Metre, 
 there will be found something, which will greatly contribute to 
 impart passion to the words, and to effect the complex end 
 which the Poet proposes to himself. 
 
 If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory upon 
 which these Poems are written, it would have been my duty to 
 develope the various causes upon which the pleasure received 
 from Metrical language depends. Among the chief of these 
 causes is to be reckoned a principle, which must be well known 
 to those who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate 
 reflection $ I mean the pleasure which the mind derives from the 
 perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle is the 
 great spring of the activity of our minds and their chief feeder. 
 From this principle the direction of the sexual appetite, and all 
 the passions connected with it, take their origin. It is the life 
 of our ordinary conversation; and upon the accuracy with which 
 similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude are 
 perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not- 
 have been a useless employment to have applied this principle to 
 the consideration of Metre, and to have shewn, that Metre is 
 hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and to have pointed out 
 in what manner that pleasure is produced. But my limits will 
 not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must- content 
 myself with a general Summary. 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 I have said 'that4*oetry is the spontaneous overftew-of powerful 
 feelings. It takes hs origin from emotion recollected in tranquil- 
 lity j the ^emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction 
 the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, similarto 
 that Which was before the subject of contemplation, is'gradual- 
 ly produced, anddoes itself actually exist in the mind. In this 
 mood successful composition generally begins, and in a -mood si- 
 nailarto this it is carried on; but the emotion, of whatever kind, 
 and in whatever degree, from various causes is qualified by va- 
 rious pleasures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever, 
 which are voluntarily described, the mind will upon the whole be 
 in a state of enjoyment. Now if Nature he thus cautious in pre- 
 serving in a state of enjoyment a being thus employed, the Poet 
 ought to profit by the lesson thus held forth to him, and ought 
 especially to take care, that whatever passions he communicates 
 to his Reader, thosepassions, if his Reader's mind be sound and 
 vigorous, should always be accompanied with an overbalance of 
 pleasure. Nowthe music of harmonious Metrical language, the 
 sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of plea- 
 sure which has been previously received from works of Rhyme 
 or Metre of the same or similar construction, all these impercep- 
 tibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most 
 important use in tempering the painful feeling which will al- 
 ways be found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the 
 deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and 
 impassioned Poetry ; while in lighter compositions the ease and 
 gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are therm- 
 selves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the 
 Reader. I might perhaps include all which it is neccessary to say 
 upon this subject by affirming what few persons will deny, that 
 of two descriptions either of passions, manners or characters, 
 each of them equally well executed, the one in Prose and the 
 other in Verse, the Verse willbe read a hundred times where the 
 Prose is read once. We see that Pope by the power of Verse 
 alone, has contrived to render the plainest common sense inte- 
 resting, and even frequently to invest it* with the appearance of 
 passion. In consequence of these conv ictionsl related in Metre 
 c 
 
xvni PREFACE. 
 
 the Tale of goody blake and harry Gitt, which Is one. 
 of the rudest of this collection. I wished to draw attention to the 
 truth that the power of the human imagination is sufficient to 
 produce such changes even in our physical nature as might al- 
 most appear miraculous. The truth is an important one j the 
 fact (for it is 2,/act) is a valuable illuftration of it. And I have 
 the satisfaction of knowing that it has been communicated to 
 many hundreds of people who would never have heard of it, 
 had it not been narrated as a Ballad, and in a more impressive 
 Metre than is usual in Ballads. 
 
 Having thus adverted to a few of the reasons why I have 
 written in Verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common 
 life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to the real lan- 
 guage of men, if I have been too minute in pleading my own 
 cause, I have at the same time been treating a subject of gene- 
 ral interest: and it is for this reason that I request the Reader's 
 permission to add a few words with reference solely to these 
 particular Poems, and to some defects which will probably be 
 found in them. I am sensible that my associations must have 
 sometimes been particular instead of general, and that, conse- 
 quently, giving to things a false importance, sometimes from 
 deceased impulses I may have written upon unworthy subjects ; 
 but I am less apprehensive on this account, than that my lan- 
 guage may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary connec- 
 tions of feelings and ideas with particular words, from which no 
 man can altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt, 
 that in some instances, feelings even of the ludicrous may be 
 given to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me ten- 
 der and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced 
 they were faulty at present, and that they muft necessarily con- 
 tinue to be so, I would willingly take all reasonable pains to 
 correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations on the 
 simple authority of-a few individuals, or even of certain classes 
 of men j for where the understanding of an Author is not con- 
 vinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done without 
 great injury to himself j for his own feelings are his stay and 
 support, and if he sets them aside in one instance he may be 
 induced to repeat this act till his mind loses all confidence in it- 
 
PREFACE, *x 
 
 self and becomes utterly debilitated. To this it may be added, 
 that the Reader ought never to forget that he is himself exposed 
 to the same errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much greater 
 degree j for there can be no presumption in saying, that it is *»ot 
 probable he will be so well acquainted with the various stages of 
 meaning through which words have passed, or with the fickle- 
 . ness or liability of the relations of patticular ideas to each other 
 and above all, since he is so much less interested in the subject, 
 he-may decide lightly and carelessly. 
 
 Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit 
 me to caution him againft a mode of false criticism which has 
 been applied to Poetry in which the language closely resembles' 
 that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed over 
 in Parodies of which Dr. Johnson's Stanza is a fair specimen. 
 
 ** I put my hat upon my head" 
 And walk'd into the Strand r 
 And there I met another marr 
 Whose hat was in his hand." 
 
 Immediately under these lines I will place one of the moll 
 juftly admired stanzas of the " Babes in the Wood.'* 
 
 " These pretty Babes with hand in hand* 
 Went wandering up and down ; 
 But never more they saw the man 
 Approaching from the Town." 
 
 In both of these stanzas the words and the order of the wordsy 
 In no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation.- 
 There are words in bath, for example, " the Strand," and the 
 Town," connected with none but the raoft familiar ideas j yet 
 the one stanza we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair 
 example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this 
 difference ? Not from the Metre, not from the language, not 
 from the order of the words j but the matter expressed in Dr. 
 
xx PREFACE. 
 
 Johnson's stanza is-contemptible. The proper method of treat- 
 ing trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza 
 would be a fair parallelism, is not not to say, this is a bad kind 
 o*" Poetry, or this is not Poetry, but, this wants sense} itissnci- 
 ther interefting in itself, nor can lead to any thing interesting^ 
 the images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which 
 atises out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the 
 Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with s»ch 
 verses : Why trouble yourself about the species till you have 
 previously decided upon the genus ? Why take pains to prove 
 that an Ape is not a Newton when it is self evident that he is 
 not a man. 
 
 I have one requeft to make of my Reader, which is, that in 
 judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genu- 
 inely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be the judg*- 
 rnent of others. How common is it to hear a person say, " I 
 myself do not object to this style of composition, or this or that 
 expression, but to such and such classes of people it will appear 
 mean or lndicrous." This mode of criticism, so destructive of 
 all sound unadulterated judgement, is almost universal j I have 
 therefore -tp request that the Reader would abide independently 
 by his own feelings, and that if he finds himself affected he 
 would not suffer such conjectures to interfere with his plea- 
 sure. 
 
 If an Author by any single composition has Impressed us 
 with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as af- 
 fording a presumption, thit, on other occasions where we have 
 been displeased, he nevertheless may not have written ill or ab- 
 surdly ; and, further, to give him so much credit for this ona 
 composition, as may induce us to review what has displeased us 
 with moieCare than we Should otherwise have bestowed upon it. 
 This is not only an act of justice, but in our decisions, upon Po- 
 etry especially, may conduce in a high degree to (he improvement 
 of our own tast* 5 for an accurate taste in Poetry and in all the other 
 arts as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, 
 Which can only be produced by thought and a long continued 
 intercourse with the best models of composition. This is men- 
 tioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the. most 
 
PREFACE. xxi 
 
 inexperienced Reader from judging for himself (I have already 
 said that I wish him to judge for himself) but merely to temper 
 the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if Poetry be a sub- 
 ject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment 
 may be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so. 
 I know that nothing would have so effectually contributed to 
 further the end which I have in view, as to have shewn of what 
 kind the pleasure is, and how the pleasure is produced which is 
 confessedly produced by Metrical composition essentially differ- 
 ent from what I have here endeavoured to recommend j for the 
 Reader will say that he has been pleased by such composition, 
 and what can I do more for him ? The power of any art is limit- 
 ed and he will suspect, that if I propose to furnish him with 
 new friends it is only upon condition of his abandoning his old 
 friends. Besides as I have said, the Reader is himself conscious 
 of the pleasure which he has received from such composition, 
 composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing 
 name of Poetry j and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and 
 something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have 
 long continued to please them-J we not only wish to be pleased, 
 but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been 
 accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these 
 feelings j and I should be the less able to combat them success- 
 fully, as I am willing to allow* that, in order entirely to en- 
 joy the Poetry which I am 'recommending,, it would be necessary 
 to give up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my 
 limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is 
 produced, I might have removed many obstacles, and assisted 
 my Reader in perceiving. that the powers of language are not so 
 limited as he may suppose j and that it is possible that Poetry may 
 give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting and more exqui- 
 fite nature. But this part of my subject I have been obliged al- 
 together to omit j as it has been less my present aim to prove 
 that the interest excited by some other kinds of Poetry is less vi- 
 vid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to 
 offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which I have pro- 
 posed to myself were adequately attained, a species of Poetry 
 would be produced, which is genuine Poetry j in its nature 
 c a 
 
«ii PREFACE. 
 
 well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise im- 
 p-rtant in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations*. 
 
 From what has been said, and from a perusal of the Poems, 
 the Reader will be able clearly to perceive the object which I have 
 proposed to myself ; he will determine how far I have attained* 
 this object; and, what is a much more important question, whe- 
 ther it be worth attaining ; and upon the decision of these two 
 questions will rest my claim to the approbation of the Public 
 
LOVE. 
 
 ALL Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but Ministers of Love, 
 
 And feed his sacred flame.: 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the Mount I lay 
 Beside the Ruined Tower. 
 
 The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the Lights of Eve-, 
 And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,. 
 My own dear Genevieve'! 
 
 She lean'd against the Armed Man, 
 The Statue of the Armed Kniglit: 
 She stood and listen'd to my harp 
 Amid the ling'ring 'light*. 
 
Few sorrows hath she of her own,. 
 My Hope ! my Joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 
 The Songs, that make her grieve.. 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful Air,, 
 I sang an old and moving Story — 
 An old rude Song that fitted well 
 The Ruin wild and hoary.. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting Blush 
 With downcast Eyes and modest Grace ; 
 For well she knew, I. could not choose 
 But gaze upon her Face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight, that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand; 
 And that for ten long years he woo'dl 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pin'd : And, ah ! 
 The low, the deep, the pleading tone, 
 With which I sang another's Love 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting Blush, . 
 With downcast Eyes and modest Grace; , 
 And she forgave me, that I gaz'd 
 Too fondly on her Facei . 
 
3 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 Which craz'd this bold and lonely Knight, 
 And that he cross'd the mountain woods 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, 
 
 There came, and look'd him in. the face, 
 An Angel beautiful and bright; 
 And that he knew, it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight * 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did, 
 He leapt amid a murd'rous band, 
 Vnd sav'd from Outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land; 
 
 And how she wept and clasp'd his knees 
 And how she tended him in vain-^- 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The Scorn that craz'd his brain ; 
 
 And that she mtrs'd him in a cave ; 
 And how his Madness went away 
 When, on the yellow forest leaves. 
 A dying man he lay; 
 
His dying words — but when I reach'cB 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My falt'ring voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd. her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve, 
 The music, and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy Eve ; 
 
 And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,. 
 An undistinguishable throng ! 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 
 Subdued and cherish'd long! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight^ 
 She blush'd with love and maiden shame; 
 And, like the murmur of a dEeam, 
 I hearcj her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heav'd — she stepp'd aside ; 
 As conscious of my. look, she stepp'd—- 
 Then suddenly with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half inclosed me with her arms, 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace; 
 And bending back her head look'd up,. 
 And gaz'd upon my face. 
 
f Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful Art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The Swelling of her Heart. 
 
 I calm'd -her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her Love with virgin pride. 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride ! 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 How a Ship having first sailed to the Equator, 
 was driven by Storms to the cold Country towards the 
 South Pole t How the Ancient Mariner, cruelly and in con- 
 tempt of the Laws of Hospitality, killed a Sea-bird j and 
 how he was followed by many and strange Judgments j and 
 in what Manner he came back to his own Country. 
 
THE RIME 
 
 OF THE 
 
 ANCYENT MARINERE, 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 It is an ancyent Marinere, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three: 
 
 V Ey thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye 
 il Now wherefore stoppest me? 
 
 " The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide 
 
 " And I am next of kin; 
 " The Guests are met, the Feast is set, — - 
 
 " May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 But still he holds the wedding-guest — 
 6 There was a Ship,' quoth he — 
 
 " Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, 
 " Marinere! come with me." 
 
 Vol. I. B 
 
14 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 Quoth he, ' There was a Ship — ' 
 
 " Now get the hence, thou grey-beard Loon! 
 " Or my Staff shall make thee skip." 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — ■ 
 
 The wedding-guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three year's child ; 
 
 The Marinere hath his will. 
 
 The wedding-guest sate on a stone, 
 
 He cannot chuse hut hear: 
 And thus spake on that ancyent Man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Marinere. 
 
 ' The ship was cheer' d, the harbour clear'd— 
 
 * Merrily did we drop 
 
 * Eelow the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 ' Below the light-house top. 
 
 - The Sun came up upon the left, 
 
 * Out of the sea came he: 
 
 * And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 * Went down into the sea. 
 
 * Higher and higher every day, 
 
 ' Till over the mast at noon — ' 
 The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
15 
 
 The Bride hath pac'd into the hall, 
 
 Red as a rose is she; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 The merry Minstralsy. 
 
 The wedding-guest" he beat his breast, 
 
 Yet he cannot cause but hear: 
 And thus spake on that ancyent Man, 
 
 The bright-eyed Marinere. 
 
 c Listen, Stranger ! Storm and Wind, 
 
 8 A Wind and Tempest strong ! 
 « For days and weeks it play'd us freaks— 
 
 * Like chafp we drove along. 
 
 1 Listen, Stranger ! mist and snow, 
 1 And it grew wond'rous cauld : 
 ' And ice- mast-high came floating by 
 
 * As green as Emerauld. 
 
 ' And thro' the drifts the snowy clifts 
 
 ' Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 4 Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken — > 
 
 * The ice was all between. 
 
 *■ The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 
 * The ice was all around: 
 
 * It crack'd andgrowl'd, androar'dand howl'd 
 
 * Like noises of a swound. 
 
16 
 
 • At length did cross an Albatross., 
 
 • Thorough the fog it came ; 
 
 • And an it were a Christian Soul, 
 
 4 We hail'd it in God's name. 
 
 ' The marineres gave it bfscuit worms, 
 
 ' And round and round it flew ; 
 4 The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
 
 i The helmsman steer'd us thro'. 
 
 ' And a good south wind sprung up behind; 
 
 • The. Albatross did follow ; 
 
 ' And every day for food or play 
 1 Came to the Marinere's hollo ! " 
 
 ' In mist cr cloud on mast or shroud 
 •'It perch'd for vespers nine, 
 
 • Whiles all the night thro' fog smoke-white 
 
 • Glimmer'd the white moonshine. ' 
 
 ••God save thee, ancyent Marinere! 
 
 '• From the Fiends that plague thee thus — 
 •« Why look'st thou so?" — 'With my cross- 
 bow 
 
 • I shot the Albatross!' — 
 
17 
 
 II. 
 
 * The sun came up upon the right, 
 
 ' Out of the sea came he ; 
 ' And broad as a weft upon the left 
 
 * Went down into the sea. 
 
 « And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 
 * But no sweet bird did follow, 
 L Ne any day for food or play 
 
 ■ Came to the Marinere's hollo ! 
 
 ' And I had done an hellish thing 
 
 * And it would work 'em woe': 
 
 * For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
 
 '■ That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 I 
 
 ' Ne dim ne red, like God's own head 
 'The glorious sun uprist: 
 
 * Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
 
 ' That brought the fog and mist. 
 " 'Twas right (said they) such birds to slay 
 
 * That bring the fog and mist." 
 
 Vol. I. B 2 
 
18 
 
 i The breezes Mew, the white foam flew, 
 
 * The furrow follow'd free : 
 
 ' We were the first that ever burst 
 
 * Into that silent sea. 
 
 ' Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 ' 'Twas sad as sad could be, 
 
 * And we did speak only to break 
 
 ' The silence of the sea. 
 
 ' All in a hot and copper sky 
 
 * The bloody sun at noon, 
 
 1 Right up above the mast did stand,. 
 ' No bigger than the moon. 
 
 * Day after day, day after day, 
 
 ' We stuck, ne breath ne motion, 
 1 As idle as a painted ship 
 
 * Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 * Water, wateV, every where, 
 
 ' And all the boards did shrink , 
 ' Water, water, every where, 
 
 * Ne any drop to drink. 
 
 * The very deeps did rot: O Christ! 
 
 * That ever this should be f 
 
 * Yea, slimy things did crawl with leg£ 
 
 i Upon the slimy sea. 
 
19 
 
 6 About, about, in reel and rout, 
 
 6 The death-fires dancM at night; 
 « The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 * Burnt green, and blue, and white. 
 
 t And some in dreams assured were 
 ' Of the Spirit that plagued us so : 
 
 1 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 ' From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 ' And every tongue thro' utter drouth 
 
 * Was wither'd at the root ; 
 
 i We could not speak no more than if 
 ' We had been choked with soot. 
 
 * Ah well-a-day! what evil looks 
 
 * Had I from old and young ; 
 
 * Instead of the Cross the Albatros^ 
 
 * About my neck was hung. 
 
20 
 
 III. 
 
 6 I saw a something in the sky 
 
 ' No bigger than my fist ; 
 ' At first it seem'd a little speck 
 
 1 And then it seem'd a mist : 
 
 * It mov'd, and mov'd, and took at last 
 
 ' A certain shape I wist. 
 
 4 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 
 ' And still it ner'd and ner'd; 
 4 And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite, 
 
 ' It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd. 
 
 * With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd r 
 
 * Ne could we laugh, ne wail: 
 
 ' Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood. 
 ' 1 bit my arm and suck'd the blood 
 
 * And cry'd, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 1 With throat unslack'd, with black lips baVd r 
 
 * Agape they heard me call : 
 
 * Gramercy ! they for joy did grin 
 
 « And all at once their breath drew in 
 
 * As they were drinking all. 
 
21 
 
 c She doth not tack from side to side*— 
 
 ' Hither to work us weal, 
 ' Withouten wind, withouten tide 
 
 * She sfeddies with upright keel. 
 
 ' The western wave was' all a flame-, 
 
 * The day was well nigh done I 
 
 * Almost upon the western wave 
 
 ' Rested the broad bright sun ; 
 1 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 ' Betwixt us and the sun. 
 
 1 And strait the sun was" fleck'd with bars, 
 
 ' (Heaven's mother send us grace,) 
 ' As if thro* a dungeon grate he peer'd 
 
 * With broad and burning face. 
 
 * Alas I (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 
 4 How fast she neres and neres ! 
 e Are those her sails that glance in the sun 
 ' Like restless Gossameres ? 
 
 * Are those her naked ribs, which fieck'd 
 
 6 The sun that did behind them peer ? 
 ' And are those two all, all the crew, 
 *That woman and her fleshless Pheere? 
 
zz 
 
 ' His bones were black with many a crack ? 
 
 ' All black and bare, I ween ; 
 ' Jet-black and bare, save where with rust 
 
 * Of mouldy damps and chamel crust 
 
 * They're patch'd with purple and green- 
 
 * Her lips are red, her looks are free,. 
 
 * Her locks are yellow as gold : 
 
 * Her skin is as white as leprosy, 
 
 ' And she is far liker Death than ht\ 
 ' Her flesh makes the still air cold*. 
 
 6 The naked hulk alongside came 
 
 * And the twain were playing dice ; 
 
 " 'The game is done! I've won, I've won!'* 
 4 Quoth she, and whistled thrice. 
 
 * A gust of wind sterte up behind 
 
 * And whistled thro' his bones ; 
 
 5 Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of 
 
 his mouth 
 6 Half- whistles and half-groans. 
 
 6 With never a whisper in the sea 
 
 ' Off darts the Spectre - ship ; 
 
 * While clombe above the Eastern bar 
 
 * The horned moon, with one bright star 
 
 * Almost atween the tips. 
 
m 
 
 * One after one by the horned moon, 
 
 * Listen, O stranger ! to me, 
 
 f Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang 
 
 • And curs'd me with his ee. 
 
 ' Four times fifty living men, 
 ' With never a sigh or groan, 
 
 6 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump 
 ' They dropp'd down one by one. 
 
 1 Their souls did from their bodies fly,—* 
 
 • They fled to bliss or woe : 
 
 * And every soul it pass'd me by, 
 
 * Like the whiz of my Cross-bow,' 
 
 IV. 
 
 *' I fear thee, an.cyent Marinere ! 
 
 " I fear thy skinny hand; 
 *•' And thou art long, and lank, and brown 
 
 " As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 
 
 ** I fear thee and thy glittering eye 
 " And thy skinny hand so brown—" 
 
 * Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ! 
 * This body dropt not down. 
 
24 
 
 e Alone, alone, all all alone ! 
 
 ' Alone on the wide wide sea; 
 c And Christ would take no pity on 
 
 ' My soul in agony. 
 
 * The many men so beautiful, 
 
 ' And they all dead did lie ! 
 
 * And a million million slimy things 
 
 ' Liv'd en — and so did I. 
 
 * I look'd upon the rotting sea, 
 
 * And drew my eyes away; 
 
 * I look'd upon the eldritch deck, 
 
 * And there the dead men lay. 
 
 * I look'd to Heaven, and try'd to pray; 
 
 * But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 1 A wicked whisper came and made 
 
 * My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 4 1 clos'd my lids and kept therti close, 
 ' Till the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 * For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the. 
 
 sky 
 « Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 
 * * And the dead were at my feet. 
 
* The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 6 Ne rot, ne reek did they ; 
 6 The look with which they look'd on me, 
 1 Had never pass'd away. 
 
 1 An Orphan's Curse would drag to Hell 
 ' A Spirit from on high : 
 
 * But O ! more horrible than that 
 
 ' Is the Curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 * Seven days, seven nights I saw that Curse, 
 
 ' And yet I could not die. 
 
 ' The moving moon went up the sky 
 
 * And no where did abide : 
 ' Softly she was going up 
 
 ' And a star or two beside, — 
 
 ' Her beams bemock'd the sultry main 
 
 ' Like morning frosts yspread ; 
 ' But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 
 * The charmed water burnt alway 
 
 ' A still and awful red. 
 
 * Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 
 ' I watch'd the water-snakes ; 
 
 * They mov'd in tracks of shining white: 
 ' and when they rear'd, the elfish light 
 
 * Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Vol. I C 
 
26 
 
 6 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 * I watch'd their rich attire: 
 
 A Blue, glossy green, and velvet-hlack 
 ■ They coilM and swain ; and every track 
 
 * Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 1 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 * Their beauty might declare : 
 
 * A spring of love gusht from my heart, 
 » * And I bless'd them unaware ! 
 
 * Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 ' And I bless 'd them unaware. 
 
 ' The self same moment I could pray ; 
 
 * And from my neck so free 
 
 * The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 * Like lead into the sea. 
 
27 
 
 V. 
 
 ' O Sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
 
 * Belov'd from Pole to Pole ! 
 
 ' To Mary-queen the praise be yeverr, 
 
 * She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven 
 
 * That slid into my soul. 
 
 S The silly buckets on the deck 
 ' That had so long remain'd, 
 
 * I dreamt that they were filPd with dew, 
 
 4 And when I awoke it rain'd. 
 
 ' My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 ' My garments all were dank ; 
 
 ' Sure I had drunken in my dreams 
 ■ And still my body drank. 
 
 ' 1 mov'd and could not feel my limbs, 
 ' I was so light almost 
 
 * I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 
 ' And was a blessed ghost. 
 
'23 
 
 c The roaring wind ! it roar'd far off, 
 
 ' It did not come anear; 
 i But with its sound it shook the sails 
 
 ' That were so thin and sere. 
 
 * The upper air bursts Into life, 
 
 * And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 ' To and fro they are hurried about ; 
 
 * And to and fro, and in and out, 
 
 ' The stars dance on between. 
 
 * The coming wind doth roar more loud j 
 
 * The sails do sigh like sedge: 
 
 •' The rain pours down from one black cloud 
 
 * And the moon is at its edge. 
 
 * Hark ! hark !" the thick black cloud is clefr, 
 
 * And the moon is at its side : 
 
 1 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 
 * The lightning falls with never a jag 
 
 * A river steep and wide. 
 
 * The strong wind reach'd the ship ; it roar'd 
 
 * And dropp'd down like a stone ! 
 
 * Beneath the lightning and tjie moon, 
 
 1 The dead men ga.ve a groan 
 
29 
 
 c They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose,. 
 
 * Ne spake, ne mov'd their eyes : 
 
 ' It had been strange, even in a dream 
 
 * To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 c The helmsman steer'd, the ship mov'd on; 
 ' Yet never a breeze up -blew ; 
 
 * The marineres all 'gan work the ropes, 
 
 ' Where they were wont to do: 
 
 * They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools, — 
 
 c We were a ghastly crew- 
 
 c The body of my brother's son 
 ' Stood by me knee to knee ; 
 
 * The body and I pull'd at one' rope>, 
 
 ' 'But he said nought to me — 
 
 * And I quak'd to think of my own voice 
 
 * How frightful it would be ! 
 
 *• The day-light dawn'c{ — they dropp'd their 
 arms, 
 
 ' And cluster'd round the mast: 
 J Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths 
 
 ' And from their bodies pass'd. 
 
 * Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 
 ' Then darted to the sun : 
 ' Slowly the sounds came back again 
 
 * Now mix'd, now one by one.. 
 Vol. I. C 2 
 
30 
 
 c Sometimes a dropping from the sky 
 
 * I heard the Lavrock sing ; 
 
 * Sometimes all little birds that are 
 
 * How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 
 * With their sweet jargoning, 
 
 6 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 
 * Now like a lonely flute; 
 
 6 And now it is an Angel's song 
 
 * That makes the Heavens be mute. 
 
 1 It ceas'd; yet still the sails made on 
 ' A pleasant noise till noon. 
 
 * A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 ' In the leafy month of June, 
 
 * That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 6 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 c Listen, O listen, tho*u wedding-guest L* 
 " Marinere! thou hast thy will; 
 
 M For that, which comes out of thine eye, 
 doth make 
 " My body and soul to be still." 
 
 i Never sadder tale was told 
 
 * To a man of woman born : 
 
 * Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest i 
 
 * Thou'lt rise to-morrow morn-. 
 
3d 
 
 ' Never sadder tale was heard 
 
 ' By a man of woman born: 
 ' The marineres all return'd to work 
 
 * As silent as beforne. 
 
 * The marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, 
 
 1 But look at me they n' old : 
 ' Thought I, I am as thin as air, — 
 ' They cannot me behold. 
 
 ' Till noon we silently sail'd on 
 
 * Yet never a breeze did breathe , 
 
 * Slowly and smoothly went the ship 
 
 * Mov'd onward from beneath. 
 
 6 Under the keel nine fathom deep; 
 
 * From the land of mist and snow 
 
 * The Spirit slid; and it was He 
 
 1 That made the ship to go. 
 
 * The sails at noon left off their tune 
 
 * And the ship stood still also. 
 
 * The sun right up above the mast 
 
 * Had fixt her to the ocean : 
 ' But in a minute she 'gan stir 
 
 ■ With a short uneasy motion; — 
 1 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 
 * With a short uneasy motion. 
 
32 
 
 4 Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
 ' She made a sudden bound: 
 
 * It flung the blood into my head, 
 
 1 And I fell into a swound. 
 
 * How long in that same fit I lay, 
 
 * I have not to declare; 
 
 * But ere my living life return' d, 
 
 * I heard and in my soul discern'd 
 
 * Two Voices in the air.. 
 
 " Is it he? (quoth one) Is this the man? 
 
 u By him who died on Cross, 
 " With his cruel bow he lay'd full low 
 
 " The harmless Albatross. 
 
 " The Spirit who bideth by himself 
 " In the land of mist and snow, 
 
 " He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man* 
 " Who shot him with his bow.'* 
 
 1 The other was- a softer voice, 
 
 * As soft as honey-dew: 
 
 *-. Quoth he, " The man hath penance done*. 
 '■' And penance more* will do." 
 
'33 
 
 VI. 
 
 ' First Voice. 
 " But tell me, tell me J speak again, 
 
 H Thy soft response renewing — 
 " What makes that ship drive on so fast ! 
 
 " What is the Ocean doing?" 
 
 f Second Voice. 
 
 " Still as a slave before his lord, 
 
 " The Ocean hath no blast: 
 " His great bright eye most silently 
 
 " Up to the moon is cast,— - 
 
 V If he may know which way to go, 
 " For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 
 " See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 " She looketh down on him." 
 
 1 First Voice. 
 
 " But why drives on that ship so fast 
 " Withouten wave or wind?" 
 
34 
 
 - * Second Voice. 
 
 " The air is cut away before, 
 " And closes from behind. 
 
 " Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high, 
 
 " Or we shall be belated: 
 " For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 
 " When the Marinere T s trance is abated. '* 
 
 4 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 * As in a gentle weather: 
 
 * Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
 
 ' The dead men stood together. 
 
 ' All stood together on the deek^ 
 
 * For a charnel dungeon fitter : 
 
 * All fix'd on roe their stony eyes 
 
 ' That in the moon did glitter. 
 
 * The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 
 6 Had never pass'd away: 
 
 * I could not draw my een from theirs. 
 
 * Ne turn them up to pray. 
 
 * And in its time the spell was snapt, 
 
 * And I could move my een : 
 
 6 I look'd far-forth, but little saw 
 ' Qf what might else be seen. 
 
35 
 
 * Like one, that on a lonely road 
 
 ' Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 4 And having once turn'd round, walks on, 
 
 ■ And turns no more his head; 
 6 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 
 * Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 c But soon there breath'd a wind on me, 
 
 * Ne sound ne motion made : 
 ' Its path was not upon the sea 
 
 ( In ripple or in shade. 
 
 1 It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek 
 ' Like a meadow- gale of spring=5r- 
 
 ' It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 6 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 ' Swiftly, swiftly, flew the ship, 
 ' Yet she sail'd softly too : 
 
 * Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 
 
 * On me alone it blew. « 
 
 i O dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 * The light-house top I see ! 
 
 ' Is this the hill? Is this the kirk? 
 
 * Is this mine own countree ? 
 
36 
 
 ' We drifted o'er the harbour bar, 
 
 * And I with sobs did pray — 
 
 * O let me be awake, my God! 
 
 ' Or let me sleep alway! 
 
 ' The harbour bay was clear as glass, 
 6 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 
 * And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 
 ' And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 * The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 
 
 ' Till rising from the same, 
 
 * Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 * Like as of torches came. 
 
 * A little distance from the prow 
 
 ' Those dark-red shadows were ; 
 6 But soon I saw that my own flesh 
 4 Was red as in a glare. 
 
 ' I turn'd my head in fear and dread, 
 6 And by the holy rood, 
 
 * The bodies had advanced, and now 
 
 * Before the mast they stood. 
 
37 
 
 ' They lifted up their stiff right-arms, 
 1 They held them straight and tight; 
 
 * And each right-arm burnt like a torch, 
 
 * A torch that's borne upright. 
 
 * Their stony eye-balls glittered on 
 
 * In the red and smokey light. 
 
 c I pray'd and turn'd my head away 
 
 ' Forth looking' as before, 
 1 There was no breeze upon the bay, 
 
 ' No wave against the shore. 
 
 * The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
 
 *• That stands above the rock : 
 
 * The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
 
 * The steady weathercock. 
 
 * And the bay was white with silent light, 
 
 * Till rising from the same 
 
 « Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 ' In crimson colours came. 
 
 * A little distance' from the prow 
 
 ' Those crimson shadows were: 
 
 6 I turn'd my eyes upon the deck— 
 
 ' O Christ ! what saw I there ? 
 
 Vol. 1. D 
 
3S 
 
 * Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; 
 
 ' And by the holy rood, 
 
 * A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 
 ' On every- corse there stood. 
 
 * This seraph-band, each -wav'd his hand; 
 
 * It was a heavenly sight: 
 
 * They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 * Each one a lovely light: 
 
 * This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand; 
 
 ' No voice did they impart, — 
 
 * No voice.; but O i the silence sank 
 
 ' Like music on my heart. 
 
 4 Eftsones I heard .the dash of oars, 
 6 I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
 
 * My head was turn'd per force away 
 
 4 And I saw a boat appear, 
 
 6 Then vanish'd all the lovely lights; 
 ' The bodies rose anew : 
 
 * With silent pace, each to his place, 
 
 * Came back the ghastly crew. 
 
 * The wind that shade nor motion made 
 
 * On me alone it. blew. 
 
The Piloi 
 
 It and the Pilot's Boy 
 
 * I heard them coming fast : 
 
 ' Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 
 * The dead" men could not blast. 
 
 ' I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 ' It is the Hermit good ! 
 * He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 ' That he makes in the wood. 
 « He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 4 The Albatross's blood, 
 
 VII. 
 
 * This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 
 * Which slopes down to the sea : 
 
 * How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 
 * He loves lo talk with marineres 
 
 * That come from a far countree. 
 
 * He kneels at morn and noon and eve— 
 
 ' He hath a cushion plump : 
 J- It is the moss, that wholly hides 
 ' The rotted old oak stump.** 
 
40 
 
 J The skiff-boat ner'd, I heard thei 
 " Why, this is strange, I trow] 
 
 " Where are those lights so many and fair 
 " That signal made but now? 
 
 " Srrange, by my faith!" the Hermit said — 
 " And tjiey answer 'd not our cheer: 
 
 « The planks look warp'd, and see those sails 
 " How thin they are and sere ! 
 
 " I never saw aught like to them 
 " Unless perchance it were — i 
 
 *• The skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 " My forest brook along: 
 " When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 ** And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below 
 
 " That eat» the she wolf's young." 
 
 " Dear Lord ! It has a fiendish look — 
 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 " I am afear'd!" — " Push on, push on!" 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 4 The boat came closer to the 6hip, 
 
 * But I ne spake ne stirr'd ! 
 
 4 The boat came close beneath the ship$ 
 
 * And strait a sound was heard ! 
 
'■ Srill lot 
 
 4t 
 
 Ui^i JRe water it rumbled on, 
 louder and more dread : 
 1 It reach'd the ship, it split the bay; 
 ' The ship went down like lead. 
 
 ' Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound, 
 
 * Which sky and ocean smote : 
 
 ' Like one that hath been seven days drown' d 
 
 4 My body lay afloat : 
 ■ But, swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 * Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 * Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 
 * The boat spun round and round: 
 'And all was still, save that the hill 
 
 * Was telling of the sound. 
 
 * I mov'd my lips ; the Pilot shriek'd 
 
 ' And fell down in a fit : 
 
 * The holy Hermit rais'd his eyes 
 
 * And pray'd where he did sit. 
 
 6 1 took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 
 
 * Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 ' Laugh'd loud and long, and all xhe while 
 
 * His eyes went to and fro; 
 
 " Ha! ha!" quoth he — " full plain I see, 
 " The Devil knows how to row." 
 Vol. I. D 2 
 
42 
 
 
 1 And now all in mine own countrt 
 
 c I stoocf on the firm land ! 
 ' The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
 
 ' And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, Holy Man ! 
 
 * The Hermit cross'd his brow — 
 " Say quick," quoth he, " 1 bid thee say 
 
 " What manner man art thou?" 
 
 « Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd 
 
 1 With a woeful agony, 
 ' Which forc'd me to begin my tale 
 
 ' And then it left me free. 
 
 ' Since then at an uncertain hour, 
 ■ Now oftimes, and now fewer, 
 
 ' That anguish comes, and makes me tell 
 ' My ghastly aventure. 
 
 'I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 ' I have strange power of speech ; 
 
 * The moment that his face I see * 
 
 • I know the man that must hear me; 
 
 *To him my tale I teach. 
 
43? 
 
 s Wh|§Mroud uproar bursts from that door! 
 
 * The Wedding-guests are there; 
 
 6 But in the garden-bower the Bride 
 ' And bride-maids singing are . 
 
 * And hark ! the little vesper-bell 
 
 ' Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
 * O Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
 
 1 Alone on a wide wide sea: 
 
 * So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 
 * Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 * O sweeter than the Marriage-feast, 
 
 * 'Tis sweeter far to me 
 
 * To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 * With a goodly company. 
 
 ' To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 * And altogether pray, 
 
 * While each to his Great Father bends, 
 
 * Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 * And youths, and maidens gay. 
 
 1 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 
 * To thee, thou Wedding-guest! 
 ' He prayeth well who loveth well, 
 
 4 Both man., and bird, and beast. 
 
c He prayeth best who loveth best, * 
 * All things both great and small : 
 
 ' For the dear God, who loveth us,. 
 ' He made and loveth all.' 
 
 The Marinere, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 
 Is gone j and now the Wedding-guest 
 Turn'd from the Bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went, like one that hath been stunn'd 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 
 He rose the morrow morn.. 
 
45 
 
 THE 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHERS TALE, 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 FOSTER-MOTHER. 
 
 I never saw the man whom you describe. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 *Tis strange ! he spake of you familiarly 
 As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother. 
 
 FoSTER-MoTHER. 
 
 Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, 
 That joined your names with mine 1 O my 
 
 sweet lady, 
 As often as I think of those dear times 
 When you two little ones would stand at eve 
 On each side of my chair, and make me learn 
 All you had learnt in the day ; and how to talk 
 In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you — 
 'Tis more like heaven to come than what has 
 
 been. 
 
46 
 
 Maria. 
 
 O my dear Mother ! this strange man has left 
 
 me 
 Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon 
 Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, 
 Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 
 She gazes idly! — But that entrance, Mother [ 
 
 Foster-Mother. 
 Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale L 
 
 Maria. 
 No one! 
 
 FosTER-MoTHERr 
 
 My husband's father told it me, 
 Poor old Leoni! — Angels rest his soul [ 
 He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
 With lusty arm. You know that huge round 
 
 beam 
 Which props the hanging- wall of the old chapel ? 
 Beneath that tree, while vet it was a tree, 
 He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
 With thistle-beards, and such small locks of 
 . wool 
 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him 
 
 home, 
 And reared him at the then Lord Yelez' cost*. 
 
m 
 
 And so the babe grew up a pretty bay, 
 A pretty boy, but most unteachable — 
 And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 
 But knew the names of birds, and mocked 
 
 their notes, 
 And whistled, as he were a bird himself: 
 And all the autumn 'twas his only play 
 To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant 
 
 them 
 With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 
 A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 
 A grey-haired man — he loved this little boy, 
 The boy loved him — and, when the Friar 
 
 taught him, 
 He soon could write with the pen^ and from 
 
 that time, 
 Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 
 So he became a very learned youth. 
 But Oh ! poor wretch !— he read, and read, 
 
 and read, 
 'Till his brain turned — and ere his twentieth 
 
 year, 
 He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 
 And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 
 With holy men, nor in a holy place ; — 
 But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 
 The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with 
 Jiim-: 
 
43 
 
 And once, as by the north side of the Chapel 
 They stood together, chained in deep discourse, 
 The earth heaved under them withsuch a groan, 
 That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen 
 Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely 
 
 frightened ; 
 A fever seized him, and he made confession 
 Gf all the heretical and lawless talk 
 Which brought this judgment: So the youth 
 
 was seized 
 And cast into that hole. My husband's father 
 Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heart : 
 And once as he was working in the cellar, 
 He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, 
 Who sung a doleful gong about green fields, 
 How sweet it were on lake or wild Savannah 
 To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 
 And wander up and down at liberty. 
 He always doted on the youth, and now 
 His love grew desperate ; and defying death, 
 He made that cunning entrance I described: 
 And the young man escaped. 
 
 Maria. 
 
 'Tis a sweet tale : 
 Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
 His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. — 
 And what became of him ? 
 
4D 
 
 Foster-Mother. 
 
 He went on ship-board 
 With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 
 Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother 
 Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
 He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 
 Soon after they arrived in that new world, 
 In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 
 And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight 
 Up a great river, great as any sea, 
 And ne'er was heard of more ; but 'tis supposed, 
 He lived and died among the savage men. 
 
 Vol. I 
 
51 
 
 LINES 
 
 LEFT UPON A SEAT IN 
 
 A YEW-TREE 
 
 Which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, 
 
 ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE 
 
 YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT, 
 
 — Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- 
 tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling ; what if here 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb 5 
 What if these barren boughs the bee not loves ; 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves 
 That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 -Who he was 
 
 That pil'd these stones, and with the mossy sod 
 First cover d o'er, and taught this aged Tree, 
 Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 
 I well remember. — He was one who own'd 
 No common -soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd, 
 
52 
 
 And big with lofty views, he to the world 
 Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint 
 Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, 
 And scorn, against all enemies prepared, 
 All but neglect; and so, his spirit damped 
 At once, with rash disdain he turn'd away, 
 And with the food of pride sustained his soul 
 In solitude.— Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; 
 And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 
 And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, 
 Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour 
 A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life: 
 And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 On the more distant scene; how lovely-'tis 
 Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that 
 
 time, 
 Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence, 
 The world, and man himself, appeared a scene 
 Of kindred loveliness: Then he would sigh 
 With mournful joy, to think that others felt 
 What he must never feel ; and so, lost man I 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 
53 
 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep 
 
 vale 
 He died, this seat his only monument* 
 
 If thou be one whose heart the holy forms- 
 Of young imagination have kept pure, 
 Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, 
 
 that Pride, 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 Is littleness; that he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 Which he has never used; that Thought with 
 
 him 
 Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye 
 Is ever on himself, doth look on one, 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might 
 
 move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom 
 
 holds 
 Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 
 In lowliness of heart. 
 
 Vol. I. E 2 
 
55 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE; 
 
 A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 
 1798. 
 
 NO cloud, no relique of the sunken day- 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge ! 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
 But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 A balmy night ! and tho r the stars be dim, 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 " Most musical, most melancholy"* Bird! 
 
 * " Most musical, most melancholy" This passage 
 hi Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that 
 of mere description : It is spoken in the character of 
 the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic 
 
56 
 
 A melancholy Bird ? O idle thought ! 
 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 — But some night-wandering Man, whose 
 
 heart was pierc'd 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 (And so, poor Wretch ! fill'd all things with 
 
 himself 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 Of his own sorrows) he, and such as he, 
 First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain; 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme 
 When he had better far have stretch'd Ins limbs 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
 By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame. 
 Should share in Nature's immortality,. 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 
 propriety. The Author makes this remark, to res- 
 cue himself from the charge of having alluded with 
 levity to a line iu Milton : A charge than which 
 none could be more painful to him, except perhaps, 
 that of having ridiculed his Bible. 
 
57 
 
 Be lov'd, like Nature ! Eut 'twill not be so; 
 And youths and maidens most poetical 
 Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 O'er Philomela's pity pleasing strains. 
 My Friend, and my Friend's Sister ! we have 
 
 learnt 
 A different lore ; we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices always full of love 
 And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 As he were fearful, that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the 
 
 paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many Nightingales ; and far and near 
 In wood and thicket over the wide grove 
 They answer and provoke each others songs — » 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug, jug, 
 
58 
 
 And one lowpiping sound more sweet than all- — 
 Stirring the air with such an harmony, 
 That should you close your eyes, you might 
 
 almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes, 
 Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 
 
 and full, 
 Glist'ning, while many a glow-worm in the 
 
 shade 
 Lights up her love-torch^ 
 
 A most gentle maid 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides thro' the pathways ; she knows all their 
 
 notes, 
 That gentle Maid I and oft, a moment's space, 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon 
 Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and. those wakeful Birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
 As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept 
 An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
 
S3 
 
 Many a Nightingale perch giddily 
 On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,' 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song, 
 Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.' 7 
 
 Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short fare- 
 well! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
 And now fo,r our dear homes. — That strain 
 
 again ! 
 Full fain it would delay me ! — My dear Babe, 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
 To make him Nature's playmate. He knows 
 
 well 
 The evening star ; and once when he awoke 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 
 
 dream) 
 I hurried with him to our orchard plot, 
 And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
 While his fair eyes that swam with undropt 
 tears 
 
60 
 
 Did glitterin the yellowmoon-beam ! Well !— 
 It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow 
 
 up 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 He may associate joy f Once more farewell 
 Sweet Nightingale J once more, my friend* ! 
 
 fere well. 
 
61 
 
 THE 
 
 FEMALE VAGRANT. 
 
 BY Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, 
 (The Woman thus her artless story told) 
 One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring 
 
 flood 
 Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. 
 Light was my sleep ; mvdays in transport roll'd : 
 With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore 
 My father's nets, or watched, when from the 
 
 fold 
 High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, 
 A dizzy depth below ! his boat and twinkling 
 
 oar. 
 
 My father was a good and pious man, 
 An honest man, by honest parents bred. 
 And I believe that, soon as I began 
 To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 
 And in his hearing there my prayers I said ; 
 And afterwards, by my good father taught, 
 I read, and loved the books in which I read ; 
 Vol. I. F 
 
62 
 
 For books in every neighbouring house T sought, 
 And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure 
 brought. 
 
 Can I forget what charms did once adorn 
 
 My garden, stored with peas, and mint, and 
 thyme, 
 
 And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn ; 
 
 The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime ; 
 
 The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time ; 
 
 My hen's rich nest through long-grass scarce 
 espied; 
 
 The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime ; 
 
 The swans, that, when I sought the water- 
 side 
 
 From far to meet me came, spreading their 
 snowy pride? 
 
 The staff I yet remember which upbore 
 The bending body of my active Sire; 
 His seat beneath the honeyed Sycamore 
 When the bees hummed, and chair by winter 
 
 fire; 
 When market morning came, the neat attire 
 With which, though bent on haste, myself I 
 
 deck'd; 
 My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire 
 
63 
 
 When stranger passed, so often I have check'd ; 
 The red-breast known for years, which at my 
 casement peck'd. 
 
 The suns of twenty summers danc'd along, — 
 Ah ! little marked, how fast they rolled away : 
 Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, 
 And cottage after cottage owned its sway; 
 No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray 
 Through pastures not his own, the master took ; 
 My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay, 
 He loved his old hereditary nook, 
 And ill could I the thought of such sad parting 
 brook. 
 
 But, when he had refused the proffered gold, 
 To cruel injuries he became a prey, 
 Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold; 
 His troubles grew upon him day by day : 
 Till all his substance fell into d<eeay. 
 His little range of water was denied;* 
 All but the bed where his old body lay, 
 All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, 
 We sought a home where we uninjured might 
 abide. 
 
 * Several of the Lakea in the 'North of England 
 are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked 
 out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock. 
 
 - 
 m 
 
64> 
 
 Can I forget that miserable hour, 
 When from the last hill top, my Sire surveyed, 
 Peering above the trees, the steeple tower, 
 That on his marriage-day sweet music made ? 
 Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid 
 Close by my mother in their native bowers : 
 Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,-*- 
 I could not pray ;-—^Through tears that fell in 
 
 showers, 
 Glimmer' d our dear lov'd home, alas! no 
 
 longer ours! 
 
 There was a youth whom I had loved so long 
 That when I loved him not I cannot say ; 
 'Mid the green mountains many andmany a song 
 We two had sung, like little birds in May : 
 When we began to tire of childish play 
 We seemed still more and more to prize each 
 
 other ; 
 We talked of marriage and our marriage day ; 
 And 1 in truth did love him like a brother, 
 For never could 1 hope to meet with such 
 
 another. 
 
 His father said, that to a distant town 
 He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. 
 What tears of bitter grief till then unknown ? 
 What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed 1 
 To him we turned ; we had no other aid. 
 
(>5 
 
 Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, 
 And her whom he had loved in joy, he said 
 He well could love in grief ; his faith he kept ; 
 And in a quiet home once more my father slept. 
 
 Four years each day with daily bread was blest, 
 By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 
 Three lovely infants lay upon my breast, 
 And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed 
 And knew not why. My happy father died 
 When sad distress reduced the children's meal : 
 Thrice happy ! that from him the grave did hide 
 The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, 
 And tears that flowed for ills which patience 
 could not heal. 
 
 *Twas a hard change, an evil time was come; 
 We had no hope, and no relief could gain. 
 But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 
 Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and 
 
 pain. 
 My husband's arms now only served to strain 
 Me and his children, hungering in his view : 
 In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain, 
 To join those miserable men he flew ; 
 And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, 
 
 we drew. 
 
 Vol. I. F 2 
 
66 
 
 There foul negleet for months and months we 
 
 bore, 
 Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred- 
 Green fields before us and our native shore ; 
 By fever, from polluted air incurred, 
 Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. 
 Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,. 
 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferred 
 That happier days we never more must view i 
 The parting signal streamed, at last, the land 
 
 withdrew. 
 
 But from delay the summer calms were past.. 
 On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 
 Ran mountains-high before the howling blast:. 
 We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep 
 Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep,. 
 Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,. 
 Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 
 That we the mercy of the waves should rue:: 
 We reached the western world, a poor, de- 
 voted crew. 
 
 Oh ! dreadful price of Being to resign 
 
 All that is dear in being ! better far 
 
 In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine^ 
 
 Unseen, unheard, unwatch'd by any star; 
 
 Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, 
 
 Better our dying bodies to obtrude, 
 
 Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, 
 
67 
 
 Protract a curs'd existence, with the brood 
 That lap (their very nourishment ! ) their bro- 
 ther's blood ! 
 
 The pains and plagues that on our heads came 
 
 down, 
 Disease and famine, agony and fear, 
 In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 
 It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 
 All perished ? — all, in one remorseless year; 
 Husband and children ! one by one, by sword 
 And ravenous plague, all perished ! every tear 
 Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 
 A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. 
 
 Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 
 
 By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, 
 
 In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main: 
 
 The very ocean has its hour of rest, 
 
 That comes not to the human mourner's breast. 
 
 Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, 
 
 A heavenly silence did the waves invest; 
 
 I looked and looked along the silent air, 
 
 Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 
 
 Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps ! 
 And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke, 
 Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 
 The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke ! 
 The shriek that from the distant battle broke ! 
 
€3 
 
 The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host 
 Driven by the bombs incessant thunder-stroke 
 To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish 
 
 toss'd, 
 Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost ! 
 
 Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, 
 When the dark streets appeared to heave and 
 
 gape, 
 While like a sea the storming army came, 
 And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, 
 And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape 
 Seized their joint prey, the mother and the 
 
 child ! 
 But from these crazing thoughts my brain, 
 
 escape ! 
 -—For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and 
 
 mild, 
 And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean. 
 
 smiled. 
 
 Some mighty gulph of separation past, 
 I seemed transported to another world:— 
 A thought resigned with pain, when from the 
 
 mast 
 The impatient mariner the sail unfurPd, 
 And whistling, called the wind that hardly 
 
 curled 
 
69 
 
 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, robbed of my perfect mind, I thought 
 At last my feet a resting-place had found: 
 Here will I weep in peace (so fancy wrought) 
 Roaming the illimitable waters round; 
 Here watch, of every human friend disowned, 
 All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood — 
 To break my dream the vessel reached its bound: 
 And homeless near a thousand homes I stood ; 
 And-near a thousand tables pined, and wanted 
 food. 
 
 By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, 
 Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 
 Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,, 
 Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 
 I lay, where, with his drowsy mates, the cock 
 From the cross timber of an out-house hung ; 
 How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock! 
 At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, 
 Nor to the beggar's language could I frame 
 my tongue. 
 
10 
 
 So passed another day, and so the third: 
 Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort i 
 In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirr'd, 
 Near the sea-side I reach'd a ruined fort: 
 There, pains which nature could no more support 
 With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall j 
 Dizzy my brain, with interruption short 
 Of hideous sense, I sunk, nor step could crawl,. 
 And thence wa£ borne away to neighbouring 
 hospital* 
 
 Recovery came with food : but still, my brain 
 Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 
 I heard my neighbours, in their beds complain 
 Of many things which never troubled me; 
 Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, 
 Of looks where common kindness had no part, 
 Of service done with careless cruelty, 
 Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 
 And groans, which, as they said, would make 
 a dead man start I 
 
 These things just served to stir the torpid sense,. 
 Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised ! 
 Memory, though slow, returned with strength ; 
 
 and thence 
 Dismissed, again in 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; 
 
71 
 
 The wild brood saw me weep, ray fate enquired, 
 And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, 
 more desired. 
 
 My heart is touched to think that men like these. 
 The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief. 
 How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease ! 
 And their long holiday that feared not grief; 
 For all belonged to all, and each was chief. 
 No plough their sinews strained; on grating 
 
 road 
 No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf 
 In every vale for their delight was stowed ; 
 For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder 
 
 flowed. 
 
 Semblance, with straw and pannierM ass, they 
 
 made 
 Of potters wandering on from door to door: , 
 But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 
 And other joys, my fancy to allure; 
 The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor 
 In barn uplighted, and companions boon, 
 Well met from far, with revelry secure, 
 In depth of forest glade, when jocund June 
 Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial 
 
 moon. 
 
72 
 
 But ill it suited me, in journey dark 
 
 O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to 
 
 hatch ; 
 To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, 
 Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch ; 
 The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, 
 The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 
 And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 
 Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill ; 
 Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were 
 
 brooding still. 
 
 What could I do, unaided and unblest ? 
 Poor Father ! gone was every friend of thine : 
 And kindred of dead husband are at best 
 Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, 
 With little kindness would to me incline. 
 Ill was I then for toil or service fit: 
 With tears whose course no effort could confine, 
 By high- way side, forgetful, would I sit 
 Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow 
 knit. 
 
 I lived upon the mercy of the fields, 
 
 And oft of cruelty the sky accused ; 
 
 On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 
 
 Now coldly given, now utteny refused. 
 
 The fields 1 for my bed have often used : 
 
 But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth 
 
 Is, that I have my inner self abused, 
 
13 
 
 Foregone the home delight of constant truth, 
 And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless 
 youth. 
 
 Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, 
 In tears, the sun towards that country tend 
 Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 
 And now across this moor my steps I bend — - 
 Oh ! tell me whither — for no earthly friend 
 
 Have I. She ceased, and weeping turn'd 
 
 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 spi- 
 rits lay. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
75 
 
 GOODY BLAKE, and HARRY GILL, 
 
 A True Story. 
 
 OH! what's the matter? what's the matter? 
 
 What is't that ails young Harry Gill ? 
 
 That evermore his teeth they chatter, 
 
 Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 
 
 Of waiseoats Harry has no lack, 
 
 Good duffle grey, and flannel line ; 
 
 He has a blanket on his back, 
 
 And coats enough to smother nine. 
 
 In March, December, and in July, 
 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 
 The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 
 At night, at morning, and at noon, 
 
 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 
 
 Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 
 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
 
 Young Harry was a lusty drover, 
 And who so stout of limb as he ? 
 His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 
 His voice was like the voice of three. 
 
76 
 
 Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 
 III 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 canty dame 
 Would sit, as any linnet gay. 
 But when the ice our streams did fetter, 
 Oh ! then how her old bones would shake f 
 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. 
 
17 
 
 Oh joy for her ! when e'er in winter 
 The winds at night had made a rout, 
 And scatter'd many a lusty splinter, 
 And many a rotten bough about. 
 Yet never had she, well or sick, 
 As every man who knew her says, 
 A pile before-hand, wood or stick, 
 Enough to warm her for three days. 
 Now, when the frost was past enduring, 
 And made her poor old bones to ache, 
 Could any thing be more alluring, 
 Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 
 And now and then, it must be said, 
 When her old bones were cold and chill, 
 She left her fire, or left her bed, 
 To seek the hedge of Harry Gill- 
 
 Now Harry he had long suspected 
 This trespass of old Goody Blake, 
 And vow'd that she should be detected, 
 And he on her would vengeance take. 
 And oft from his warm fire he'd go, 
 And to the fields his road would take, 
 And there, at night, in frost and snow, 
 He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake, 
 
 Vol. I. G 2 
 
is. 
 
 And once, behind a rick of barley, 
 Thus looking out did Harry stand, 
 The moon was full and shining clearly, 
 And crisp with frost the stubble land. 
 —-He hears a noise — he's all awake — 
 Again? — on tip-toe down the hill 
 He softly creeps — 'Tis Goody Blake, 
 She's at the hedge of Harry Gill. 
 
 Right glad was he when he beheld her: 
 Stick after stick did Goody pull, 
 He stood~behind a bush of elder, 
 Till she had filled her apron full. 
 When with her load she turned about, 
 The bye road back again to take, 
 He started forward with a shout, 
 And sprang upon poor Goody Blake : 
 And fiercely by the arms he took her, 
 And by the arm he held her fast, 
 And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 
 And cried, " I've caught you then at last! 
 Then Goody, who had nothing said, 
 Her bundle from her lap let fall; 
 And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd 
 To God that is the judge of all. 
 
 She pray'd, her withered hand uprearing, 
 While Harry held her by the arm — 
 " God ! who art never out of hearing, 
 ** O may he never more be warm !■" 
 
19 
 
 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 I 
 
 That day he wore a riding-coat* 
 
 But not a whit the warmer he : 
 
 Another was on Thursday brought, 
 
 And ere the Sabbath he had three. 
 
 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 
 And blankets were about him pinn'd; 
 Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 
 Like a loose casement in the wind. 
 And Harry's flesh it fell away j 
 And all who see him say 'tis plain, 
 That, live as long as live he may, 
 He never will he warm again. 
 No word to any man he utters, 
 A-bed or up., to young or old ; 
 But ever to himself he mutters, 
 " Poor Harry Gill is very cold.'* 
 A-bed or up, by night or day ; 
 His teeth they chatter, chatter still : 
 Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 
 Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. 
 
80 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written at a small distance from my house 
 
 and sent by my little boy to the 
 
 person to whom they are 
 
 addressed. 
 
 IT is the first mild day of March: 
 Each minute sweeter than before, 
 The red-breast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of jov to yield 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the g^een field* 
 
 My Sister ! 'tis a wish of mine, 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make haste, your morning task resign; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you, and pray, 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress,, 
 And bring no book, for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
81 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living Kalendar: 
 We from to day, my friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now and universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is stealing, 
 From earth to man, from man to earth, 
 — It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than fifty years of reason ; 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season* 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts may make, 
 Which they shall long obey ; 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed Power that rolls 
 About, below, above; 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls, 
 They shall be tuned to Love. 
 
 Then come, my sister ! come, I pray, 
 With speed put on your woodland dress,. 
 And bring no book ; for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness. 
 
 n 
 
82 
 
 SIMON LEE, 
 THE OLD fiUNTSMJN, 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
 CONCERNED. 
 
 IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 
 An old man dwells, a little man, 
 
 I've heard he once was tall. 
 
 Of years he has upon his back, 
 
 No doubt, a burthen weighty ; 
 
 He says he is three score and ten, ; 
 
 But others say he's eighty. 
 
 A long blue livery-coat has he* 
 
 That's feir behind, and fair before; 
 
 Yet, meet him where you will, you see 
 
 At once that he is poor. 
 
 Full five and twenty years he lived 
 
 A running huntsman merry; 
 
 And, though he has but one eye left, 
 
 His cheek is like a cherry. 
 
83 
 
 m 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And no man was so full of glee ; 
 
 To say the least, four counties round 
 
 Had heard of Simon Lee; 
 
 His master's dead, and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the hall of Ivor; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 His hunting feats have him bereft 
 
 Of his right eye, as you may see : 
 
 And then, what limbs those feats have left 
 
 To poor old Simon Lee ! 
 
 He has no son, he has no child, • 
 
 His wife an aged woman, 
 
 Lives with him near the water-fall, 
 
 Upon the village common, 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick, 
 
 His little body's half awry, 
 
 His ancles they are swoln and thick; 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 
 When he was young he little knew 
 
 Of husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 And now he's forced to work, though weak, 
 
 — The weakest in the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind; 
 
 And often, ere the race was done, 
 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 
84 
 
 And still there's something in die world 
 At which his heart rejoices ; 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 Old Ruth works out of doors with him, 
 And does what Simon cannot do ; 
 For she, not over stout of limb, 
 , Is stouter of the two. 
 And though you. with your utmost skill 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 Alas ! 'tis very little, all 
 Which they can do between them. 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But what avails the land to them, 
 Which they can till no longer ? 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 As he to you will tell, 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 His poor old ancles swell. 
 
85 
 
 My gentle reader, I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 
 And I'm afraid that you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O reader ! had you in your mind 
 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 gentle reader 1 you would find 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 
 1 hope you'll kindly take it; 
 
 It is no tale, but should you think, 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old man doing all he could 
 About the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand ; 
 So vain was his endeavour 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have work'd for ever. 
 " You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool?" to him I said; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffered aid. 
 I struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I sever'd, 
 At which the poor old man so long 
 And vainly had endeavour'd. 
 Vol. I. H 
 

 86 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought, 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his .heart, I thought 
 They never would have done. 
 — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning: 
 Alas ! the gratitude of men 
 Has oftner left me mourning. 
 
8~ 
 
 ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, 
 
 SHEWING HOW 
 
 THE ART OF LYING 
 
 MAY BE TAUGHT. 
 
 I HAVE a boy of five years old, 
 His face is fair and fresh to see ; 
 His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, 
 And dearlv he loves me. 
 
 One morn we stroll'd on our drv walk, 
 Our quiet house all full ill view, 
 And held such intermitted talk 
 As we are wont to do. 
 
 My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 
 I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, 
 My pleasant home, when spring began, 
 "A long long year before. 
 
88 
 
 A day it was when I could bear 
 To think, and think, and think again ; 
 With so much happiness to spare, 
 I could not feel a pain. 
 
 My boy was by my side, so slim 
 And graceful in his rustic dress ! 
 And oftentimes I talked to him, 
 In very idleness. 
 
 The young lambs ran a pretty race; 
 The morning sun shone bright and warm , 
 " Kilve, said I, was a pleasant place, 
 " And so is Liswyn farm* 
 
 " My little boy, which like you more, 
 (I said and took him by the arm) — 
 " Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, 
 " Or here at Liswyn farm ? 
 
 " And tell me, had you rather be, 
 
 (I said and held him by the arm) 
 
 ** At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, 
 
 " Or here at Liswyn farm?" 
 
 In careless mood he looked at me, 
 While still I held him by the arm, 
 And said, < At Kilve Fd rather be 
 « Than here at Liswyn farm.' 
 
89 
 
 " Now, little Edward, say why so? 
 " My little Edward, tell me why?" 
 ' I cannot tell, X do not know.' 
 " Whv this is strange/* said I : 
 
 " For here are woods and green-hills warm; 
 " There surely must some reason be 
 " Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm 
 " For Kiive by the green sea." 
 
 At this, my boy, so fair and slim, 
 Hung down his head, nor made reply ; 
 And five times did I say to him, 
 " Why? Edward, tell me why?" 
 
 His head he raised — there was in sight, 
 It caught bis eye r he saw it plain — 
 Upon the house-top, glittering bright, 
 A broad and gilded vane. 
 
 Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 
 And thus to me he made reply ; 
 1 At Kilve there was no weather-cock, 
 * And that's the reason why.* 
 
 Oh dearest, dearest boy ! my heart 
 For better lore would seldom yearn, 
 Could I but teach the hundredth part 
 Of what from thee I learn. 
 
 Vol. I. H 2 
 
90 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 A simple child, dear brother Jim, 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl, 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That cluster'd round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad ; 
 Her eyes were fair and very fair, 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 * Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 
 ' How many may you be?' 
 
 " How many? seven in all," — she said, 
 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 e And where are they, I prav you tell V 
 She answered, " Seven are we, 
 " And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 li And two are pone to sea: — 
 
91 
 
 " Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 " My sister and my brother, 
 " And in the church-yard cottage, I 
 " Dwell near them w^imy motheijP- 
 
 * You say that twO at Conway dwell, 
 
 * And two are gone to sea, 
 
 ' Yet you are seven; I pray you tell 
 
 * Sweet Maid, how this may be?' 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we; 
 " Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
 " Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 ' You run about, my little maid, 
 ' Your limbs they are alive ; 
 ' If two are in the church-yard laid, 
 ' Then ye are only five.' 
 
 I 
 " 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. 
 
 ' 
 
92 
 
 " And often after sunset, Sir, 
 " When it is light and fair, 
 
 " I take my little porringer* 
 " And «at my suppej^;h( 
 
 iere. 
 
 " The first that died was little Jane; 
 " In bed she moaning lay, 
 " Till God released her of her pain,, 
 " And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the church- yard she was laid,- 
 w And all the summer dry, 
 *' Together round her grave we played, 
 " My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 
 " And I could run and slide, 
 
 " My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 " And he lies by her side." 
 
 ti How many are you then,* said I, • 
 
 * If they two are in Heaven?' ,v 
 
 The little Maiden did reply, 
 " O Master! we are seven." 
 
 44 But they are dead; those two are dead ? 
 44 Their spirits are in heaven !" 
 'Twas throwing words away; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven!" 
 
93 
 LlflhES 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 
 
 I heard a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sate reclin'd, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What Man has made of Man. 
 
 Through primrose- tufts, in that sweet bower 
 The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd : 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure, 
 But the least motion which they made 
 It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 
 
94 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan,. 
 To catch the breezy air, 
 And I nmst think, do all I can, 
 That thffe was pleas^Jfc there. 
 
 If I these thoughts may not prevent, 
 If such be of my creed the plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What Man has made of Man ? 
 
95 
 
 THE 
 
 THORN, 
 
 I. 
 THERE is a Thorn; it looks so old, 
 In truth you'd find it hard to say, 
 How it could ever have been young, 
 It looks so old and grey. 
 Not higher than a two-years' child, 
 It stands erect this aged Thorn ; 
 No leaves it has, no thorny points ; 
 It is a mass of knotted joints, 
 A wretched thing forlorn. 
 It stands erect, and like a stone 
 With lichens it is overgrown. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown 
 With lichens to the very top, 
 And hung with heavy tufts of moss, 
 A melancholy crop : 
 
78 
 
 Up from the earth these mosses creep, 
 
 And this poor Thorn they clasp it round 
 
 So close, you'd say that they were bent 
 
 With plain and manifest intent, 
 
 To drag it to the ground j 
 
 And all had joined in one endeavour 
 
 To bury this poor Thorn for ever. 
 
 - 111. 
 
 High on a mountain's highest ridge, 
 
 Where oft the stormy winter gale 
 
 Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 
 
 It sweeps from vale to vale ; 
 
 Not five yards from the mountain path 
 
 This Thorn you on your left espy ; 
 
 And to the left, three yards beyond, 
 
 You see a little muddy pond 
 
 Of water, never dry; 
 
 I've measur'd it from side to side: 
 
 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And close beside this aged Thorn, 
 There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
 A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
 Just half a foot in height. 
 
97 
 
 All lovely -colours there you see, 
 All colours that were ever seen ; 
 And mossy net-work too is there, 
 As if by hand of lady fair 
 The work had woven been, 
 And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
 So deep is their vermillion dye. 
 
 Ah me ! what lovely tints are there 
 
 Of olive-green and scarlet bright ! 
 
 In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
 
 Green, red, and pearly white. 
 
 This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 
 
 Which close beside the Thorn you see, 
 
 So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, 
 
 Is like an infant's grave in size, 
 
 As like as like can be: 
 
 But never, never any where, 
 
 An infants grave was half so fair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
 This pond and beauteous hill of moss, 
 You must take care and chuse your time 
 The mountain when to cross. 
 
 Vol. h I 
 
98 
 
 For oft there sits, between the heap 
 That's like an infant's grave in size, 
 And that same pond of which I spoke, 
 A woman in a scarlet cloak, 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 *' Oh woe is me! oh misery !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 At all times of the day and night 
 This wrenched woman thither goes, 
 And she is known to every star, 
 And every wind that blows; 
 And there beside the Thorn she sits 
 When the bine day-light's in the skies, 
 And when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 And to herself she cries, 
 
 *' Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 " Oh woe is me ! oh misery !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ** Now wherefore thus, by day and night, 
 " In rain, in tempest, and in snow, 
 " Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
 ** Does this poor woman go ? 
 
99 
 
 " And why sjts she, beside the Thorn 
 
 " When the blue day-light's in the sky, 
 
 " Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
 
 " Or frosty air is keen and still, 
 
 " And wherefore does she cry ? — 
 
 " Oh wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why 
 
 §j Does she repeat that doleful cry?" 
 
 I cannot tell ; I wish I could ; 
 
 For the true reason no one knows, 
 
 But if you'd gladly view the spot, 
 
 The spot to which she goes ; 
 
 The heap that's like an infant's grave, 
 
 The pond — and Thorn — so old and grey, 
 
 Pass by her door — tis seldom shut — < 
 
 And if you see her in her hut, 
 
 Then to the spot away ! — 
 
 I never heard of such as dare 
 
 Approach the spot when she is there. 
 
 " But wherefore to the mountain- top 
 Can this unhappy woman go, 
 Whatever star is in the skies, 
 Whatever wind may blow?" 
 
 ■:i 
 
100 
 
 Nay rack your brain — 'tis all in vain ;■ 
 I'll tell you every thing I know; 
 But to the Thorn, and to the pond 
 Which is a little step beyond* 
 1 wish that you would go : 
 Perhaps when you are at the place 
 You something of her tale may trace. 
 
 xt 
 
 I'll give you the best help I can: 
 
 Before you up the mountain go, 
 
 Up to the dreary mountain-top, 
 
 I'll tell you all I know. 
 
 'Tis now some two and twenty years, 
 
 Since she (her name is Martha- Ray) 
 
 Gave with a maiden's true good will 
 
 Her company to Stephen Hill; 
 
 And she was blithe and gay, 
 
 And she was happy, happy still 
 
 Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hilfc 
 
 And they had fix'd the wedding-day, 
 The morning that must wed them both > 
 But Stephen to another maid 
 Had sworn another oath ; 
 
101 
 
 And with this other maid to church 
 
 Unthinking Stephen went — 
 
 Poor Martha ! on that woeful day 
 
 A cruel, cruel fire, they say, 
 
 Into her bones was sent : 
 
 It dried her body like a cinder, 
 
 And almost turn'd her brain to tinder. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 They say, full six months after this, 
 
 While yet the summer-leaves were green, 
 
 She to the mountain-top would go, 
 
 And there was often seen. 
 
 'Tis said, a child was in her womb, 
 
 As now to any eye was plain ; 
 
 She was with child, and she was mad. 
 
 Yet often she was sober sad 
 
 From her exceeding pain. 
 
 Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather 
 
 That he had died, that cruel father ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Sad case for such a brain to hold 
 Communion with a stirring child ! 
 Sad case, as you may think, for one 
 Who had a brain so wild ! 
 
 Vol. I. I 2 
 
102 
 
 JLast Christmas when we talked of this, 
 Old Farmer Simpson did maintain, 
 That in her womb the infant wrought 
 About its mother's heart, and brought 
 Her senses back again: 
 And when at last her time drew near, 
 Her looks were calm, her senses clear. 
 
 XV. 
 
 No more I know, 1 wish I did, 
 And I would tell it all to you; 
 For what became of this poor child 
 There's none that ever knew : 
 And if a child was born or no, 
 There's no one that could ever tell 
 And if 'twas born alive or dead, 
 There's no one knows, as I have said, 
 But some remember well, 
 That Martha Ray about this time 
 AVould up the mountain often climb. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 And all that winter, when at night 
 The wind blew from the mountain-peak, 
 'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, 
 The church-yard path to seek : 
 
103 
 
 For many a time and oft were heard 
 Cries coming from the mountain-head,.. 
 Some plainly living voices were, 
 And others, I've heard many swear, 
 Were voices of the dead:, 
 I cannot think, whate'er they say, 
 They had to do with Martha Ray., 
 
 xvir. 
 
 But that she goes to this old Thorn, 
 
 The Thorn which I've describ'd to you, 
 
 And there sits in a scarlet cloak ,.. 
 
 I will be sworn is true. 
 
 For one day with my telescope, 
 
 To view the ocean wide and bright, 
 
 When to this country first I came, 
 
 Ere I had heard of Martha's name, 
 
 I climbed the mountains' height : 
 
 A storm came on, and I could see 
 
 No object higher than my knee. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain, 
 No screen, no fence could I discover, 
 And then the wind! in faith, it waa 
 A wind full ten times over !. 
 
104 
 
 I looked around, I thought I saw 
 
 A jutting crag, and off I ran, 
 
 Head-foremost,, through the driving rain, 
 
 The shelter of the crag to gain^ 
 
 And, as I am a man, 
 
 Instead of jutting crag, I found 
 
 A woman seated on the ground . 
 
 XIX. 
 
 f did not speak — I saw her face — 
 Her face it was enough for me; 
 I turned about and heard her cry, 
 
 "O misery ! O misery !" 
 And there she sits, until. the moon 
 Througk half the clear blue sky will go, 
 And when the little breezes make 
 The waters of the pond to shake, 
 As all the country know, 
 She shudders and you hear her cry, 
 
 " Oh misery! oh misery! 
 
 
 XX. 
 
 " But what's the Thorn? and what's the pond ? 
 " And what's the hill of moss to her? 
 " And what's the creeping breeze that comes 
 44 The little pond to stir?" 
 

 105 
 
 I cannot tell; but some will say- 
 She hanged her baby on: the tree, 
 Some say she drowned it in the pond-, 
 Which is a Kttle step beyond, 
 But all and each agree, 
 The little babe was buried there, 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fain 
 
 XXI. 
 
 I've heard the scarlet moss is red 
 With drops of that poor infant's blood ; 
 But kill a new-born infant thus! 
 I do not think she could. 
 Some say, if to the pond you go, 
 And fix on it a steady view, 
 The shadow of a, babe you trace, 
 A baby and a baby's face, 
 And that it looks at you; 
 Whene'er you lodk on it, 'tis plain 
 The baby looks at you again. 
 % 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And some had sworn an oath that she 
 Should be to public justice brought ; 
 And for the little infant's bones 
 With spade9 they would have sought : 
 
106 
 
 But then the beauteous hill of moss 
 Before their eyes began to stir ; 
 And for full fifty yards around ; 
 The grass it shook upon the ground 
 But all do still aver 
 The little babe is buried there, 
 Beneath that hill of moss so fair* 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 I cannot tell how this may be, v 
 
 But plain it is, the Thorn is bound 
 
 With heavy tufts of moss,, that strive 
 
 To drag it to the ground. 
 
 And this I know, full many a time, 
 
 When she was on the mountain high, 
 
 By day, and in the silent night, 
 
 When all the stars shone clear and bright, 
 
 That I have heard her cry, 
 
 " Oh misery ! oh misery ! 
 
 " O. woe is me ! oh misery I" 
 
107 
 
 THE 
 
 LAST OF THE FLOCK. 
 
 IN distant countries I have been, 
 And yet I have not often seen 
 A healthy man, a man full grown. 
 Weep in the public roads alone. 
 But such a one, on English ground, 
 And in the broad high-way, I met ; 
 Along the broad high- way he came, 
 His cheeks with tears were wet. 
 Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad, 
 And in his arms a lamb he had : 
 
 He saw me, and he turn'd aside, 
 As if he wish 'd himself to hide. 
 Then with his coat he made essay 
 To wipe those briny tears away. 
 
108 
 
 I follow'd him, and said, " My friend 
 
 ** What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" 
 
 — Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty lamb, 
 
 He makes my tears to flow. 
 
 To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 
 
 He is the last of all my flock : — 
 
 When I was young, a single man, 
 And after youthful follies ran, 
 Though little given to care and thought, 
 Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought; 
 And other sheep from her I raised, 
 As healthy sheep as you might see, 
 And then I married, and was rich 
 As I could wish to be ; 
 Of sheep I number'd a full score, 
 And every year encreas'd my store, 
 
 Year after year my stock it grew, 
 
 And from this one, this single ewe, 
 
 Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 
 
 As sweet a flock as ever grazed ! 
 
 Upon the mountain did they feed; 
 
 They throve, and we at home did thrive. 
 
 •—This lusty lamb of all my store 
 
 Is all that is alive: 
 
 And now I care not if we die, 
 
 And perish all of poverty. 
 
109 
 
 Ten children, Sir I had I to feed, 
 
 Hard labour in a time of need 1 
 
 My pride was tamed, and in our grief, 
 
 I of the parish ask'd relief. 
 
 They said " I was a wealthy man ; 
 
 ** My sheep upon the mountain fed, 
 
 4t And it was fit that thence I took 
 
 *' Whereof to buy us bread: 
 
 " Do this ; how can we give to you, 
 
 " They cried, what to the poor is due?" 
 
 I sold a sheep as they had said, 
 
 And bought my little children bread, 
 
 And they were healthy with their food ; 
 
 For me it never did me good. 
 
 A woeful time It was for me, 
 
 To see the end of all my gains, 
 
 The pretty flock which I had reared 
 
 With all my care and pains ; — 
 
 To see it melt like snow away ! 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. 
 
 Another still ! and still another! 
 
 A little lamb, and then its mother 1 
 
 It was a vein that never stoppM, 
 
 Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped 
 
 Vol. I. K 
 
11© 
 
 Till thirty were not left alive 
 
 They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 
 
 And I may say that many a time 
 
 I wished they all were gone : 
 
 They dwindled one by one away : 
 
 For me it was a woeful day. 
 
 To wicked deeds I was inclined, 
 And wicked fancies cross'd my mind, 
 And every man I chanc'd so 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 1 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 curs'd me in my sore distress, 
 
 I prayed, yet every day I thought 
 
 I loved my children less j 
 
 And every week, and every day, 
 
 My flock it seemed to melt away. 
 
Ill 
 
 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 y 
 
 And of my fifty, yesterday 
 
 I had but only one, 
 
 And here it lies upon my arm, 
 
 Alas 1 and I have none ; 
 
 To-day I fetched it from the rock; 
 
 It is the last of all my flock." 
 
112 
 
 THE DUNGEON. 
 
 AND this place our forefathers made for man ! 
 This is the process of our love and wisdom, 
 To each poor brother who offends against us — 
 Most innocent, perhaps, — And what if guilty ? 
 Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ! 
 Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd uj> 
 Ey ignorance and parching poverty, 
 His energies roll back upon his heart, 
 And stagnate and corrupt ; till changed to 
 
 poison, 
 They break out on him, like a loathsome 
 
 plague spot ; 
 Then we call in our pamperM mountebanks— 
 And this is their best cure ! uncomforted 
 And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, 
 And savage faces, at the clanking hour, 
 Seen through the steams and vapour of his 
 
 dungeon, 
 Ey the lamp's dismal twilight ! So he lies 
 Circled with evil, till his very soul 
 
113 
 
 Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 
 By sights of ever more deformity ! 
 With other ministrations Thou, O Nature ! 
 Healest thy wandering and distempered child : 
 Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 
 Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing 
 
 sweets,' 
 Thy melodies of woods, and winds and wa- 
 ters, 
 Till he- relent, and can no more endure 
 To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, 
 Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; " 
 But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, 
 His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
 By the benignant touch of love and beauty. 
 
 Vol. I K 2 
 
114 
 
 THE 
 
 MAD MOTHER. 
 
 HER eyes are wild, her head is bare, 
 
 The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, 
 
 Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, 
 
 And she came far from over the main* 
 
 She has a baby on her arm, 
 
 Or else she were alone ; 
 
 And underneath the hay-stack warm, 
 
 And on the green wood stone, 
 
 She talked and sung the woods among ; 
 
 And it was ia the English tongue. 
 
 44 Sweet babe I 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 t 
 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 
 
115 
 
 To thee I know, too much I owe ; 
 I cannot work thee any woe. 
 
 «* A fire was once within my brain • 
 And in my head a dull, dull pain; 
 And fiendish faces one, two, three, 
 Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me : 
 But then there came a sight of joy ; 
 It came at once to do me good ; 
 I waked, and saw my little boy, 
 My little boy of flesh and blood ; 
 Oh joy for me that sight to see! 
 For he was here and only he. 
 
 ** Suck little babe, oh suck again I 
 It cools my blood, it cools my brain; 
 Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 
 Draw from my heart the pain away. 
 Oh ! press me with thy little hand; 
 It loosens something at my chest ; 
 About that tight and deadly band 
 1 feel thy little fingers press'd. 
 The breeze I see is in the tree ; 
 It comes to cool my babe and me. 
 
 *« Oh ! love me, love me, little boy ! 
 Thou art thy mother's only joy ; 
 And do not dread the waves below, 
 When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go ; 
 
H6< 
 
 The high crag cannot work me harm,. 
 Nor leaping torrents when they howl ; 
 The babe I carry on my arm, 
 He saves for me my precious soul; 
 Then happy lie, for blest am I; 
 Without me my sweet babe would die. 
 
 " Then do not fear, my boy! for thee 
 
 Bold as a lion I will be ! 
 
 And I will always be thy guide, 
 
 Through hollow snows and rivers wide ; 
 
 I'll build an Indian bower ; I know 
 
 The leaves that make the softest bed ; 
 
 And if from me thou wilt not go, 
 
 But still be true 'till I am dead, 
 
 My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing, 
 
 As merry as the birds in spring. 
 
 " Thy father cares not for my breast, 
 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest : 
 'Tis all thine own ! and if its hue 
 Be changed, that was so fair to view, 
 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 
 My beauty, little child, is flown ; 
 But thou wilt live with me in love, 
 And what if my poor cheek be brown? 
 'Tis well for me thou canst not see 
 How pale and wan it else would be. 
 
117 
 
 " 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 away. 
 
 " I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; 
 
 I'll teach him how the owlet sings. 
 
 My little babe ! thy lips are still, 
 
 And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. 
 
 — Where art thou gone my own dear child 1 
 
 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. 
 
 " O ! 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. 
 
IIS 
 
 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 1 
 
 And there, my babe, we'll live for aye. 
 
 ■ 
 
119 
 
 THE 
 
 I DIOT BO Y. 
 
 '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? 
 
120 
 
 There's scarce a soul that's out of bed ; 
 Good Betty ! put him down again ; 
 His lips with joy they burr at you, 
 But, Betty ! what has he to do 
 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 
 
 The world will say ^tis very idle, 
 Bethink you of the time of night ; 
 There's not a mother, no not one, 
 But when she hears what you have done, 
 Oh ! Betty, she'll be in a fright. 
 
 But Betty's bent on her intent, 
 For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 
 Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 
 Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 
 As if her very life would fail. 
 
 There's not a house within a mile, 
 No hand to help them in distress : 
 Old Susan lies a-bed in pain, 
 And sorely puzzled are the twain, 
 For what she ails they cannot guess. 
 
 And Betty '5 husband's at the wood, 
 Where by the week he doth abide, 
 A woodman in the distant vale ; 
 There's none to help poor Susan Gale, 
 What must be done ? what will betide ? 
 
121 
 
 And Betty from the lane has fetched 
 Her poney, that is mild and good, 
 "Whether he be in joy or pain, 
 Feeding at will along the lane, 
 Or bringing faggots from the wood. 
 
 And he is all in travelling trim, 
 And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 
 Has up upon the saddle set, 
 The like was never heard of yet, 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot boy. 
 
 And he must post without delay 
 Across the bridge that's in the dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down, 
 To bring a Doctor from the town, 
 Or she will die, old Susan Gale ! 
 
 There is no need of boot or spur, 
 There is no need of whip or wand. 
 For Johnny has his holly-bough, 
 And with a hurly-burly now 
 He shakes the green bough in his hand. 
 
 And Betty o'er and o'er has told 
 The boy who is her best delight, 
 Both what to follow, what to shun, 
 What do, and what to leave undone, 
 How turn to left, and how to right. 
 
 Vol. I. L 
 
122 
 
 And Betty's most especial charge 
 Was, " Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that yoa 
 " Come home again, nor stop at all, 
 " Come home again, whate'er befall 
 * 6 My Johnny do, I pray yon do?" 
 
 To this did Johnny answer make, 
 Both with his head, and with his hand, 
 And proudly shook the bridle too ; 
 And then ! his words were not a few, 
 Which Betty well could understand. 
 
 And now that Johnny is just going, 
 Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, 
 She gently pats the poney's side, 
 On which her Idiot boy must ride, 
 And seems no longer in a hurry. 
 
 But when the poney moved his legs, 
 Oh ! then for the poor Idiot boy ! 
 For jov he cannot hold the bridle, 
 For joy his head and heels are idle, 
 He's idle all for very joy, 
 
 And while the poney moves his legs, 
 In Johnny's left hand you may see 
 The green bough motionless and dead ; 
 The moon that shines above his head 
 Is not more still and mute than he. 
 
123 
 
 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 I 
 
 And Betty's standing at the door, 
 And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, 
 Proud of herself and proud of him, 
 She sees him in his travelling trim, 
 How quietly her Johnny goes. 
 
 The silence of her Idiot Boy, 
 What hopes it sends to Betty's heart ! 
 He's at the guide-post — he turns right, . 
 She watches till he's out of sight, 
 And Betty will not then depart. 
 
 Burr, burr, — now Johnny's lips they burr, 
 As loud as any mill, or near it; 
 Meek as a lamb the poney 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, bun> 
 
 And on he goes beneath the moon. 
 
124 
 
 His steed and he right well agree, 
 For of this poney 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. 
 
 Eut then he is a horse that thinks ! 
 And when he thinks his pace is slack ; 
 Now, though he knows poor Johnnv well, 
 Yet for his life he cannot tell 
 What he has got upon his back. 
 
 So through the moonlight lanes they go, 
 And far into the moonlight dale, 
 And by the church, and o'er the down, 
 To bring a doctor from the town 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And Betty, now at Susan's side, 
 
 Is in the middle of her story, 
 
 " What comfort Johnny soon will bring!" 
 
 With many a most diverting thing, 
 
 Of Johnny's wit and Johnny's glory ! 
 
 And Betty's still at Susan's side: 
 By this time she's not quite so flurried ; 
 Demure, with porringer and plate 
 She sits, as if in Susan's fate 
 Her life and soul were buried. 
 
125 
 
 But Betty, poor good woman! she,. 
 You plainly in her face may read it, 
 Could lend out of that moment's store 
 Five years of happiness or more, 
 To any that might need it. 
 
 But yet I guess that now and then 
 With Betty all was not so well, 
 And to the road she turns her ears, 
 And thence full many a sound she hears, 
 Which she to Susan will not tell. 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 
 " As sure as there's a moon inheaven,'* 
 Cries Eetty, " he'll be back again; 
 " They'll both be here, 'tis almost ten, 
 '• They'll both be here before eleven." 
 
 Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 
 The clock gives warning for eleven, 
 'Tis on the stroke — " If Johnny's near, 75 
 • Quoth Betty " he will soon be here, 
 "As sure as there's a moon in heaven." 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 
 And Johnny is not yet in sight, 
 The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, 
 But Betty is not quite at ease ; 
 And Susan has a dreadful night. 
 
 Vol.L L2 
 
126 
 
 And Betty, half an hour ago, 
 On Johnny vile reflections cast ; 
 " A little idle sauntering thing !" 
 With other names, an endless string, 
 But now that time is gone and past. 
 
 And Betty's drooping at the heart, 
 That happy time all past and gone, 
 " How can it be he is so late? 
 " The Doctor he has made him wait ; 
 " Susan! they'll both be here anon !" 
 
 And Susan's growing worse and worse, 
 And Betty's in a sad quandary ; 
 And then there's nobody to say 
 If she must go, or she must stay : 
 — She's in a sad quandary. 
 
 The clock is on the stroke of one ; 
 But neither Doctor nor his guide 
 Appear along the moonlight road, 
 There's neither horse nor man abroad, 
 And Betty's still at Susan's side. 
 
 And Susan she begins to fear 
 Of sad mischances not a few, 
 That Johnny may perhaps be drownM, 
 Or lost perhaps, and never found ; 
 Which they must both for ever rue. 
 
127 
 
 She prefaced half a hint of this 
 With, \ God forbid it should be true !' 
 At the first word that Susan said 
 Cried Betty rising from the bed, 
 " Susan, I'd gladly stay with you; — 
 
 " I must be gone, I must away, 
 •' Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; 
 " Susan, we must take care of him, 
 " If he is hurt in life or limb"— 
 ' Oh God forbid!' poor Susan cries. 
 
 " What can I do?" says Betty, going, 
 *' What can I do to ease your pain? 
 " Good Susan i tell me, and I'll stay; 
 " I fear you're in a dreadful way, 
 " But I shall soon be back again !" 
 
 • Good Betty go ! good Betty go ! 
 ' There's nothing that can ease my pain.' 
 Then off she hies, but with a prayer 
 That God poor Susan's life would spare, 
 Till she comes back again. 
 
 So through the moonlight lane she goes, 
 And far into the moonlight dale ; 
 And how she ran, and how she walked, 
 And all that to herself she talked, 
 Would surely be a tedious tale. 
 
12S 
 
 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!" everywhere. 
 
 She's past the bridge that's in the dale, 
 And now the thought torments her sore r 
 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 dovwn, 
 Alone amid a prospect wide ; 
 There's neither Johnny nor his horse, 
 Among the fern or in the gorse; 
 These's neither doctor nor his guide. 
 
 rt 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 join'd the wandering gypsey-folk : " 
 
 u Or him that wicked poney's carried 
 " To the dark cave, the goblins' hall, 
 " Or in the castle he's pursuing, 
 " Among the ghosts, his own undoing; 
 " Or playing with the water- fall. 
 
129 
 
 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 poney had his share. 
 
 And now she's got into the town, 
 And to the Doctor's door she hies : 
 'Tis silence all on every side ; 
 The town so long, the town so wide, 
 Is silent as the skies. 
 
 And now she's at the Doctor's door, 
 She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap ! 
 The Doctor at the casement shews, 
 His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ; 
 And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 
 
 " Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where's my Johnny ?" 
 * I'm here, what is't you want with me?' 
 " Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, 
 " And I have lost my poor dear boy, 
 p You know him — him you often see; 
 
130 
 
 " 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 1 !" 
 
 She stops, she stands, she looks about, 
 
 Which way to turn she cannot tell. 
 
 Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 
 
 If she had heart to knock again ; 
 
 « — The clock strikes three— a dismal knell ! 
 
 Then up along the town she hies, 
 No wonder if her senses fail, 
 This piteous news so much it shock'd her, 
 ■ She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 
 To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 
 
 And now she's high upon the down, 
 And she can see a mile of road, 
 " Oh cruel ! I'm almost three-score ; 
 " Such night as this was ne'er before L 
 " There's not a single soul abroad !'*' 
 
131 
 
 She listens, but she cannot hear 
 The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 
 The streams with softest sound are flowing, 
 The grass you almost hear it growing, 
 You hear it now if e'er you can. 
 
 The owlets through the long blue night 
 Are shouting to each other still : 
 Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob, 
 They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 
 That echoes far from hill to hill. 
 
 Poor Betty now has lost all kope, 
 JHer thoughts are bent on deadly sin; 
 A green-grown pond she just has pass'd. 
 And from the brink she hurries fast, 
 Lest she should drown herself therein. 
 
 And now she sits her down and weeps ; 
 
 Such tears she never shed before ; 
 
 " Oh dear, dear poney! my sweet joy! 
 
 " Oh carry back my Idiot boy! 
 
 " And we will ne'er o'erload thee more." 
 
 A thought is come into her head ; 
 " The poney 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." 
 
132 
 
 Then up she springs as if on wings } 
 She thinks no more of deadly sin; 
 If Betty fifty ponds should see, 
 The last of all her thoughts would be, 
 To drown herself therein. 
 
 Oh reader ! now that I might tell 
 What Johnny and his horse are doing ! 
 What they've been doing all this time; 
 Oh ! could I put it into rhyme, 
 A most delightful tale pursuing ! 
 
 Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 
 He with his poney now doth roam 
 The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 
 To lay his hands upon a star, 
 And in his pocket bring it home. 
 
 Perhaps he's turned himself about, 
 His face unto his horse's tail, 
 And still and mute in wonder lost, 
 All like a silent horseman-ghost, 
 He travels on along the vale. 
 
 And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep, 
 A fierce and dreadful hunter he ! 
 Yon valley, thats so trim and green, 
 In five month's time, should he be seen, 
 desart wilderness will be. 
 
133 
 
 Perhaps with head and heels on fire, 
 And like the very soul of evil, 
 He's galloping away, away ! 
 And so he'll gallop on for aye, 
 The bane of all that dread the devil. 
 
 I to the Muses have been bound, 
 
 These fourteen years, by strong indentures ; 
 
 Oh gentle Muses ! let me tell 
 
 But half of what to him befel, 
 
 For sure ! "he met with strange adventures. 
 
 Oh gentle Muses ! is this kind ? 
 Why will ye thus my suit repel? 
 Why of your further aid bereave me ? 
 And can ye thus unfriended leave me ? 
 Ye Muses i whom I love so well. 
 
 Who's yon, that near the water-fall 
 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 1 live ! 
 
 Vol. I. M 
 
1,34. 
 
 And that's the very poney too, 
 Where is she, — where is Betty Foy ? 
 She hardly can sustain her fears ; 
 The roaring water-fall she hears, 
 And cannot find her Idiot boy. 
 
 Your poney's worth his weight in gold, 
 Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy ! 
 She's coming from among the trees, 
 And now, all full in view, she sees 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot boy. 
 
 And Betty sees -the poney 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 torrents' force, 
 She almost has o'erturn'd the horse, 
 And fast she holds her Idiot boy. 
 
 And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud, 
 AVhether in cunning, or in joy, 
 I cannot tell ; but while he laughs, 
 Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs, 
 To hear again her Idiot boy. 
 
13. 
 
 And now she's at the poney's tail, 
 And now she's at the poney's head, 
 On that side now, and now on this, 
 And almost stifled with her bliss, 
 A few sad tears does Betty shed. 
 
 She kisses o'er and o'er again, 
 Him whom she loves, her Idiot boy ! 
 She's happy here, she's happy there, 
 She is uneasy every where ; 
 Her limbs are all alive with joy. 
 
 She pats the poney, where or when 
 She knows not, happy Betty Foy ! 
 The little poney glad may be, 
 But he is milder far than she, 
 You hardly can perceive his joy. 
 
 " Oh ! Johnny, never mind the Doctor ; 
 " You've done your best, and that is all." 
 She took the reins, when this was said, 
 And gently turned the poney's head 
 From the loud water-fall. 
 
 By this the stars were almost gone, 
 The moon was setting on the hill, 
 So pale you scarcely looked at her. 4 
 The little birds began to stir, 
 Though yet their tongues were still. 
 
•U6 
 
 The poney, Betty, and her boy, 
 Wind slowly through the woody dale : 
 And who is she, be-times abroad, 
 That hobbles up the steep rough road ? 
 Who is it, but old Susan pale i » 
 
 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 turn'd, she toss'd herself in bed, 
 On all sides doubts and terrors met her; 
 Point after point did she discuss ; 
 And while her mind was fighting thus, 
 Her body still grew better. 
 
 4 Alas ! what is become of them ? 
 
 ' These fears can never be endured, 
 
 * I'll to the wood.' — The word scarce said* 
 
 Did Susan rise up from her bed, 
 
 As if by magic cured. 
 
 Away she posts up hill and down, 
 
 And to the wood at length is come, 
 
 She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting ; 
 
 Oh me ! it is a merry meeting, 
 
 As ever was in Christendom.. 
 
137 
 
 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 truej!" 
 
 Now Johnny all night long had heard 
 The owls in tuneful concert strive; 
 No doubt too he the moon had seen; 
 For in the moonlight he had been 
 From eight o'clock till five. 
 
 And thus to Betty's question, he 
 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 
 (His very Words I give to you) 
 
 " The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 
 
 " And the sun did shine so cold." 
 
 — Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 
 
 And that was all his travel's story. 
 
 Vol. I M 2 
 
139 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE 
 THAMES, 
 
 AT EVENING. 
 
 HOW rich the wave, in front, imprest 
 
 With evening-twilight's summer hues, 
 
 While facing thus the crimson west, 
 
 The boat her silent path pursues ! 
 
 And see how dark the backward stream ! 
 
 A little moment past, so smiling! 
 
 And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
 
 Some other loiterer beguiling* 
 
 Such views the youthful Bard allure,, 
 
 Eut heedless of the following gloom, 
 
 He deems their colours shall endure 
 
 'Till peace go with him to the tomb, 
 
 < — And let him nurse his fond deceit, 
 
 And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
 
 Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 
 
 Though grief and pain may come to-morrow .? 
 
1W 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 O Thames ! that other Bards may see,- 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river ! eome to me. 
 Oh glide,/ fair stream ! for ever so ; 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 'Till all our minds for ever flow, 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 Vain thought! yet be as now thou art, 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a Poet's heart, 
 How bright, how solemn,, how serene! 
 Such heart did once the Poet bless, 
 Who, pouring here a ,* later ditty, 
 Could find no refuge from distress, 
 But in the milder grief of pity. 
 Remembrance ! as we glide along, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar, 
 And pray that never child of Song 
 May know his freezing sorrows more. 
 How calm! how still! the only sound,. 
 The dripping of the Oar suspended ! 
 — The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest powers attended.. 
 
 * Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last 
 written, I believe, of the poems which were publish- 
 ed during his life time. This Ode is also alluded to 
 in the next stanza. 
 
141 
 
 EXPOSTULATION 
 
 REPLY. 
 
 " WHY William, on that old grey stone, 
 " Thus for the length of half a day, 
 " Why William, sit you thus alone, 
 M And dream your time away? 
 
 " Where are your books ? that light becmeath'd 
 " To beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 " Up ! Up ! and drink the spirit breath'd 
 " From dead men to their kind. 
 
 *' You look round on your mother earth* 
 " As if she for on purpose bore you ; 
 " As if you were her first-born birth, 
 " And none had lived before you !'* 
 

 142 
 
 One morning, thus, by Esthwaite lake,. 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake ; 
 And thus I made reply. 
 
 " The eye it cannot chuse but see, 
 " We cannot bid the ear be still; 
 " Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 " Against, or with our will. 
 
 *' Nor less I deem that there are powers, 
 " Which of themselves our minds impress, 
 " That we can feed this mind of ours, 
 " In a wise passiveness. 
 
 " Think you, mid all this mighty sum 
 " Of things for ever speaking, 
 " That nothing of itself will come, 
 " But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 " Conversing as I may, 
 
 " I sit upon this old grey stone, 
 
 ** And dream my time away." 
 
143 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED; r 
 An Evening Scene on the same Subject, 
 
 UP ! Up ! my friend, and clear your looks, 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up ! Up ! my friend, and quit your books 
 Or surely you'll grow double. ; 
 
 The sun above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshning lustre mellow, 
 
 Through all the long green fields has spread 
 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife, 
 Com*, hear the woodland linnet ; 
 How sweet his music ! on my life 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
144 
 
 i 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 And he is no mean Preacher; 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal. wood 
 May teach you more of man ; 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the love which Nature brings ,- 
 Our meddling intellect 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things ; 
 — We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of- science and of art; 
 Close up these barren leaves ; 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 That watches and receives*, 
 
145 
 
 OLD MAN TRAVELLING; 
 
 ANIMAL TRANQUILITY AND DECAY 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 THE little hedge-row birds, 
 That peck along the road, regard him not. 
 He travels on, and in his face, his step, 
 His gait, is one expression; every limb, 
 His look and bending figure, all bespeak 
 A man who does not move with pain, but moves 
 With thought. — He is insensibly subdued 
 To settled quiet; he is one by whom 
 All effort seems forgotten, one to whom 
 Long patience has such mild composure given, 
 That patience now doth seem a thing, of which 
 He hath no need. He is by nature led • 
 To peace so perfect, that the young behold 
 With envy, what the old man hardly feels. 
 — I asked him whither he was bound, and what 
 The object of his journey; he replied, 
 " Sir ! I am going many miles to take 
 " A last leave of my son, a mariner, 
 " \¥fio from a sea-fight has been brought to 
 
 Falmouth, 
 " And there is dying in an hospital.*' 
 Vol. I. N 
 
146 
 
 ■ 
 
 THE COMPLAINT 
 
 OF A FORSAKEN 
 
 INDIAN WOMAN. 
 
 [When a Northern Indian, from sickness, 
 ds unable to continue his journey with his 
 companions; he is left behind, covered over 
 with Deer skins, and is supplied with water, 
 food, and fuel, if the situation of the place 
 will afford it. He is informed of the track 
 which his companions intend to pursue, and 
 if he is unable to follow, 4>r overtake them, 
 hie perishes alone in the Desartj unless he 
 should have the good fortune to fall in with 
 some other Tribes of Indians. It is unne- 
 cessary to add. that the females are equally, 
 or still more, xxposedto the same fate. See 
 that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey 
 from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. 
 When the Northern Lights, as the same wri- 
 ter informs us, vary their position in the air, 
 they make a rustling and a crackling noise. 
 This circumstance is alluded to in the first 
 stanza of the following poem.'] 
 
147 
 
 THE COMPLAINT, 
 fife. 
 
 BEFORE I see another day 
 
 Oh let my body die away 1 
 
 In sleep I heard the Northern Gleams, 
 
 The stars they were among my dreams- j 
 
 In sleep did I behold the skies, 
 
 I saw the crackling flashes drive ; 
 
 And yet they are upon my eyes, 
 
 And yet I am alive. 
 
 Before I see another day, 
 
 Oh let my body die away ! 
 
 My fire is dead: it knew no pain; 
 
 Yet is it dead, and I remain. 
 
 All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 
 
 And they are dead, and I will die. 
 
 When I was well, I wished to live, 
 
 For clothes, for warmth, for food and fire; 
 
 But they to me no joy can give, 
 
 No pleasure now, and no desire. 
 
 Then here contented will I lie ; 
 
 Alone I cannot fear to die^ 
 
148 
 
 Alas ! you might have dragged me on 
 
 Another day, a single, one ! 
 
 Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; 
 
 Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 
 
 When you were gone my limbs were stronger, 
 
 And Oh ! how grieviously I rue, 
 
 That, afterwards, a little longer, 
 
 My friends, I did not follow you ! 
 
 For strong and without pain I lay, 
 
 My friends, when you were gone away. 
 
 My child ! they gave thee to another, 
 A woman who was not thy mother : 
 When from my arms my babe they took, 
 On me how strangely did he look ! 
 Through his whole body something ran, 
 A most strange something did I see ; 
 ■ — As if he strove to be a man, 
 That he might pull the sledge for me. 
 And then he stretched his arms, how wild! 
 Oh mercy ! like a little child. 
 
 Mv 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'l^iye died with thee.. 
 
149 
 
 Oh wind that o'er my head art flying, 
 The way my friends their course did bend, 
 I should not feel the pain of dying, 
 Could I with thee a message send. 
 Too soon, my friends, you went away; 
 For I had many things to say. 
 
 I'll follow you across the snow, 
 You travel- heavily and slow: 
 In spite of all my weary pain, 
 I'll look upon your tents again. 
 My fire is dead, and snowy white 
 The water which beside it stood ; 
 The wolf has come to me to night, 
 And he has stolen away my food. 
 For ever left alone am I, 
 Then wherefore should I fear to die? 
 
 My Journey will be shortly run, 
 
 I shall not see another sun ; 
 
 I cannot lift my limbs to know 
 
 If they have any life or no. 
 
 My poor forsaken child f if I 
 
 For once could have thee close to me, 
 
 With happy heart I then would die, 
 
 And my last thoughts would happy be, 
 
 I feel my body die away, 
 
 I shall not see another day. 
 
 Vol. L N 2 
 
150 
 
 THE CONVICT. 
 
 THE glory of evening was spread through 
 the west, 
 — On the slope of a mountain I stood, 
 While the Joy that precedes the calm season 
 of rest 
 Rang loud through the meadow and wood. 
 
 " And must we then part from a dwelling so 
 fair?" 
 
 In the pain of my spirit 1 said; 
 And with a^deep sadness I turned, to repair 
 
 To the cell where the convict is laid. 
 
 The thick ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate 
 Resound ; and the dungeons unfold : 
 
 I pause ; and at length, through the glimmer- 
 ing grate, 
 That Outcast of Pity behold. 
 
 His black matted head on his shoulder is bent, 
 And deep is the sigh of his breath, 
 
 And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent 
 On the fetters that link him to death. 
 
151 
 
 'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze> : 
 That Body dismiss'd from his care ; 
 
 Yet my fancy has pierc'd to lids heart,, and 
 pourtrays 
 More terrible images there. 
 
 His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is 
 dried 
 With wishes the past to' undo ; 
 And his crime, thro' the pains that o'erwhelm 
 him, descried, . 
 Still blackens and grows on his view. 
 
 When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking 
 field, 
 
 To his chamber the Monarch is led, 
 Allsoothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, 
 
 And quietness pillow his head. 
 
 But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would 
 doze, 
 
 And Conscience her tortures appease, 
 'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose 
 
 In the comfortless vault of disease ! 
 
 When his fetters at night have so press'd on 
 his limbs, 
 
 That the weight can no longer be borne, 
 If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, 
 
 The wretch on his pallet should turn, — 
 
152 
 
 While the jail mastiff howls at the dull clank- 
 ing, chain, 
 
 From the roots of his hair there shall start 
 A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating 
 pain, 
 And terror shall leap at his heart. 
 
 But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, 
 
 And the motion unsettles a tear; 
 The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, 
 
 And asks of me, why I am here? 
 
 "Poor, victim! no idle intruder has stood 
 " With o'erweening complacence our state 
 to compare; 
 * l But one, whose first wish is the wish to he 
 good, 
 " Is come as a Brother thy sorrows to share. 
 
 " At thy name though compassion her nature 
 resign, 
 " Though in virtue's proud mouth thy re- 
 port be a stain, 
 " My care, . if the arm of the mighty were 
 mine, 
 "■ Would plant thee where yet thou might's t 
 blossom again." 
 
153 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written a few miles above TINTERN AB- 
 BEY, on revisiting the BANKS OF THE 
 WYE during a Tour; July 13, 1798. 
 
 Five years have passed; five summers, with 
 
 the length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain- 
 springs 
 With a sweet inland murmur.* — Once again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 'Which on a wild secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts bf more deep seclusion; and connect 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- 
 tufts, 
 
 * The river is not affected by the tides a few 
 miles above Tintern. 
 
154 
 
 Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits r 
 Among the woods and copses lose themselves, 
 Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb 
 The wild green landscape. Once again I see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little 
 
 lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild, these pastoral farms 
 Green to the, very door ; and wreaths oft smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem, 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 Though absent long, 
 These forms of beauty have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, 
 And passing even into my purer mind 
 With tranquil restoration: — Feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure ; such, perhaps, 
 As may have had no trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 
155 
 
 Of aspect more sublime:; that blessed mood, 
 In which the burthen of the mystery, 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world 
 Is lighten'd : — That serene and blessed mood, 
 In which the affections gentlv lead us on, 
 Until the breath of this corporeal frame, 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, 
 In darkness, and, amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless day-light, when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, 
 How oft in spirit, have I turned to thee 
 O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the 
 
 woods 
 'How often has my spirit turned to thee? 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguishM 
 
 thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 
156 
 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but- with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, 
 
 when first 
 I came among these hills j when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever Nature led ; more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature 
 
 then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling, and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, or any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur : Other gifts 
 Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, 
 
157 
 
 Abundant recompence. For I have learned 
 
 To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the. light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 
 And the blue-sky, and in the mind of man, 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am 
 
 1 still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
 And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
 Of eyerand ear, both what they half-create* 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
 In Nature and the language of the sense, 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 
 Vol. I. O 
 
 * This line has a close resemblance to an admi- 
 rable line of Young, the exact expression of which 
 I cannot recollect. 
 
153 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my hearty and soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor, perchance, 
 If 1 were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me, here, upon the banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou, my dearest Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend ! and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 My dear, dear Sister ! And this prayer I make, 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 The Heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege, 
 Through all the Years of this our life, to lead 
 From joy to joy; for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men^ 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith that all which we behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain winds be free 
 

 159 
 
 To blow against thee ; and in after years, 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; Oh ! then, 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, 
 If I should be, where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these 
 
 gleams 
 Of past existence, wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 We stood together; and that I, so long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came, 
 Unwearied in that service; rather say 
 With warmer love — Oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves, and for thy 
 
 sake, 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
LYRICAL BALLADS, 
 
 OTHER POEMS: 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 BY W. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Quam nihil ad genium, Papinianc, tuum! 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 FROM THI LONDON SECOND EDITION. 
 
 ^Jjilatieipfiia: 
 
 TRINTED AND SOLD BY JAMES HUMPHREYS. 
 At the N.W. Corner of Walnut and Dock-street. 
 
 1802. 
 

CONTENTS. 
 Vol. II. 
 
 Hart-leap Well - - -■ Page 5 
 
 There was a Boy, &c. - - - 17 
 
 The Brothers, a Pastoral Poem - - - 19 
 
 Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle - 41 
 
 Strange Fits of Passion I have known, &c. - 44 
 
 Song - - ■ - - - 46 
 
 A Slumber did my Spirit seal, &c. - 47 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine -. 48 
 
 The Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral w - 51 
 
 Lucy Gray ----- 56 
 The Idle Shepherd-Boys, or Dungoon-Gill Force, a 
 
 Pastoral - - - - 59 
 
 'Tis said that some have died for Love * - - 63 
 
 Poor Susan - - - 66 
 Inscription for the Spot where the Hermitage stood 
 
 on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent Water - - 68 
 Inscription for the House (an Out-house) on the 
 
 Island at Grasmere - - 69 
 
 To a Sexton - - - 71 
 
 Andrew Jones - - - 73 
 
 The two Thieves, or the last Stage of Avarice - 75 
 
 A Whirl-blast from behind the Hill, &c. - • - 79 
 
 Song for the wandering Jew - - 80 
 
 Ruth - - - - - - Si 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Lines written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone, &c. 92 
 
 Lines written on a Tablet in a School 94 
 
 The two April Mornings - 96 
 
 The Fountain, a Conversation - 99 
 
 Nutting - - 103 
 
 Three Years she grew in Sun and Showe -, &c. - ic6 
 
 The Pet-Lamb, a Pastoral - - - 108 
 Written in Germany on one cf the coldest days of 
 
 the Century - - 114 
 
 The Childless Father - - - 117 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar, a Description - 119 
 
 Rural Architecture - nj 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph - - 129 
 
 A Character - .- - - 13a 
 
 A Fragment - - - - 134 
 
 PoenlB on the Naming of Places - - *37 
 
 Michael, a Pastoral - - - 149 
 
 Note to the Thorn - - _ _ - 169 
 
 Note to the Ancient Mariner _ iy X 
 
 Note to the Poem on Revisiting *he Wye - - 172 
 
 Notes to the Poem of the Brothers - - 172 
 
 Notes to the Poem of Michael - - ibid 
 
HART-LEAP WELL. 
 

HART-LEAP WELL, 
 
 Hart leap Well is a small spring of water, about 
 five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near 
 the side of the road vohich leads from Richmond 
 to Askrigg, Its name is derived from a remark- 
 able chace, the memory of vohich is preserved by 
 the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the 
 following Poem, vohich monuments do novo exist 
 as I have there described them. 
 
 THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley 
 
 moor 
 With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ; 
 He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door, 
 And, " Bring another Horse !" he cried aloud. 
 
 u Another Horse !" — That shout the Vassal 
 
 heard, 
 And saddled his best steed, a comely Grey ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they gallop'd made the Echoes roar; 
 But horse and man are vanished, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
 Follow, and weary, up the mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd 
 
 them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretch' d among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of thechace? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
 —This race, it looks not like an earthly race ; 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died; 
 But now the Knight beholds him lying dead 
 
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy ; 
 He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn, 
 But gaz'd upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter 
 
 lean'd 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd, 
 And foaming like a mountain cataract ! 
 
 Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch 'd, 
 His nose half touch'd a spring beneath a hill, 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had 
 
 fetch'd 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 
 Was never man in such a joyful case, 
 
 Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south and 
 
 west, 
 And gaz'd, and gaz'd upon that darling place ! 
 
 And turning up the hill, it was at least 
 Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found 
 Three several marks, which with his hoofs 
 
 the beast 
 Had left imprinted on the verdant ground. 
 
 Vol. II. B 
 
vo 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, * Till now 
 ' Such sight was never seen by living eyes ! 
 
 * Three leaps have borne him from this lofty 
 
 brow, 
 
 * Down to the very fountain where he lies ! 
 
 4 I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
 'And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; 
 ■ 'Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's 
 cot, 
 
 * A place of Love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 * A cunning artist will I Tiave to frame 
 ' A Bason for that fountain in the dell ; 
 
 * And they, who do make mention of the same, 
 1 'From this day forth, shall call it Hart- leap 
 
 WelL 
 
 ■* And gallantbrute ! to make thy praises known, 
 f Another monument shall here be rais'd: 
 
 * Three several Pillars, each a rough hewn 
 
 stone, 
 ' And planted where thy hoofs the turf have 
 graz'd. 
 
 x And in the summer-time, when days are long, 
 *. I will come hither with my paramour, 
 
 * And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song, I 
 
 * We will make merry in that pleasant bower. & 
 
 
I'l 
 
 * Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 < My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure; 
 *■ — The joy of them, who till the fields of 
 
 Swale,. 
 1 And them who dwell among the woods of 
 
 lire!'' 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone 
 
 dead, 
 With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the 
 
 spring. 
 And sooa the Knight performed what he had 
 
 said, 
 The fame whereof thro' many a land did ring; 
 
 Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd, 
 A Cup of stone received the living Well ; 
 Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, 
 And built a House of Pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And near thefountaini flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd, 
 Which; soon- composed a little Sylvan Hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long, 
 Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
12 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another Tale. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade, 
 To curl the blood I have no ready arts ; 
 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, 
 It chancM that I saw, standing in a dell, 
 Three Aspins, at three corners of a square, 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a Well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine, 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
 The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were grey, with neither arms nor 
 
 head; 
 Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man has been." 
 
13 
 
 Flook'd upon the hills both far and near; 
 More doleful place did never eye survey : 
 It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here, 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
 When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired, 
 Came up the hollow. Him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be of him inquir'd. 
 
 The Shepherd stop'd, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehears'd : 
 
 * A jolly place (said he) in times of old! 
 
 ' But something ails it now; the spot is cursed 1 
 
 * You see these lifeless stumps of Aspin wood, 
 ' Some say that they are beeches, others elms, 
 1 These were the Bower; and here a Mansion 
 
 stood, 
 ' The finest palace of a hundred realms. ; 
 
 ' The Arbour does, its own condition tell, 
 « You see the stones, the fountain, and the 
 stream j 
 
 * But as to the Great Lodge, you might as well 
 
 * Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 Vol. II. B2 
 
14 
 
 
 ' There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor 
 sheep, 
 
 * Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
 ' And, oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
 
 * This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 ' Some say that here a Murder has been done, 
 ■ And Blood cries out for Blood ! But for my 
 part, 
 
 * I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
 ' That it was all for that unhappy Hart ! 
 
 ' What thoughts must through the creature's 
 brain have pass'd ! 
 
 * To this place from the stone upon the steep 
 ' Are but three bounds, and look, Sir, at this 
 
 last? 
 
 * O Master ! it has been a cruel leap ! 
 
 ' For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 
 * And, in my simple mind, we cannot tell 
 
 * What cause the Hart might have to love this 
 
 place, 
 
 * And come and make his death-bed near the 
 
 Well. 
 
 ' Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank, 
 1 LulPd by this fountain, in the summer-tide; 
 ' This water was, perhaps, the first he drank 
 ' When he had wander 'd from his mother's side, 
 
15 
 
 * In April here, beneath the scented thorn, 
 
 6 He heard the birds their morning carols sing, 
 'And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was 
 born 
 
 * Not half a furlong from that self same spring. 
 
 ' But now ! here's neither grass nor pleasant 
 shade; ' * 
 
 J The sun on drearier hollow never shone : 
 
 * So will it be, as 1 have often said, 
 
 * Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are 
 
 gone.' 
 
 " Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken 
 
 weft; 
 " Small difference lies between thy creed and 
 
 mine ; 
 " This Beast not unobserv'd by Nature fell, 
 " His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine. 
 
 " The Being that is in the clouds and air, 
 " That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 " Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 " For them, the quiet creatures, whom he loves. 
 
 " The Pleasure-house is dust, behind, before! 
 " This is no common waste, no common 
 
 gloom ; 
 " But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 " Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
xe 
 
 " She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 "That what we are, and have been, may be 
 
 known ; a 
 " But, at the coming of the milder day, 
 "These monuments shall all be overgrown; 
 
 " One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,. 
 ** Taught both by what she shews* and what 
 
 conceals ; 
 
 " Never to blend our Pleasure or our Pride 
 "With Sorrow, of the meatiest thing that 
 
 /eels." 
 
17 
 
 THERE was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye 
 
 Cliffs 
 And Islands of Winander ! many a time, 
 At evening, when the stars had just begun 
 To move along the edges of the hills, 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake, 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 PressM closely palm to palm and to his mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument^ 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent Owls 
 That they might answer him. And they would 
 
 shout 
 Across the wat'ry vale and shout again 
 Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 Redoubled and redoubled, a wild scene 
 Of mirth and jocund din. And when it chanced 
 That pause? of deep silence mock'd his skill, 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, whilehe hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprize 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 
IS 
 
 Of mountain torrents, or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv'd* 
 Into the bosom, of the steady lake. 
 
 Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, 
 The vale where he was born; the Church-yard 
 
 hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village school, 
 And there along that bank when I have pass'd 
 At Evening, I believe, that near his grave 
 A full half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — for he died when he was ten years old. 
 

 19 
 
 THE BROTHERS, 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM.* 
 
 ' THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs 
 
 must live 
 4 A profitable life : Some glance along, 
 
 * Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air, 
 4 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 
 * Long as their summer lasted ; some, as wise, 
 
 * Upon the forehead of a jutting crag 
 
 * Sit perch'd with book and pencil on their 
 
 knee, 
 
 * And look and scribble, scribble on and look, 
 'Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 
 
 * Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 
 1 But for that moping son of Idleness, 
 
 ' Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our Church 
 yard 
 
 * This Poem was intended to be the concluding 
 Poem of a series of Pastorals, the scene of which 
 was laid among the mountains of Cumberland and 
 Westmoreland. I mention this to apologize for the 
 abruptness with which the Poem begins. 
 
20 
 
 * Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 
 * Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread, 
 
 * And a few natural graves. ' To Jane, his wife, 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 It was a July evening, and he sate 
 Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
 Of his old cottage, as it chanced that day, 
 Employ'd in winter's work. Upon the stone 
 His wife sat near him, teasing matted wool, 
 While, from the twin cards tooth'd with glit- 
 tering wire, 
 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
 Who turn'd her large round wheel in the open 
 
 air 
 With back and forward steps. Towards the 
 
 field 
 In which the parish chapel stood alone, 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall, 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had 
 
 sent 
 Many a long look of wonder, and at last, 
 Risen from his seat, beside the snowy ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled, 
 He laid his implements with gentle care, 
 Each in the other lock'd ; and, down the path 
 Which from his cottage to the church-yard led, 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering 
 
 there. 
 
21 
 
 *Twas one well known to him informer days, 
 A Shepherd-lad ; who, ere his thirteenth year 
 Had chang'd his calling ; with the mariners 
 A fellow-mariner, and so had fared 
 Thro' twenty seasons ; but he had been rear'd 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 The tones of water-falls, and inland sounds 
 Of caves and trees ; and when the regular wind 
 Between the Tropics fill'd the steady sail 
 And blew with the same breath through days 
 
 and weeks, 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze, 
 And while the broad green wave and sparkling 
 
 foam 
 Flash'd round him images and hues, that 
 
 wrought 
 In union with the employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep 
 Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that 
 
 graz'd 
 On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees, 
 
 Vol. II. C 
 
22 
 
 And shepherds clad m the same country grey 
 Which he himself had worn.* 
 
 And now at length, 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acqnir'd by traffic in the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is return'd, 
 With a determin'd purpose to resume 
 The life which he liv'd there, both for the sake 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love 
 Which to an only brother he bas borne 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
 Were brother Shepherds on their native hills. 
 —They were the last of all their race ; and now, 
 When Leonard had approach'd his home, his 
 
 heart 
 Fail'd in him, and, not venturing to inquire 
 Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov'd, 
 Towards the Church-yard he had turn'd aside, 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn 
 If still his brother liv'd, or to the file 
 Another grave was added.— He had found 
 Another grave, near which a full half hour 
 
 * This description of the Calenture is stretched from 
 an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in profe, 
 by Mr. Gilbert, Author of the Hurricane. 
 
23 
 
 He had remain'd, but, as he gaz'd, there grew 
 Such a confusion in his memory, 
 That he began to doubt, and he had hopes 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, 
 That it was not another grave, but one 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path, 
 As "up the vale he came that afternoon, 
 Thro' fields which once had been well known 
 
 to him. 
 And Oh! what joy the recollection now 
 Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 
 And looking round he thought that heperceiv'd 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
 And the eternal hills themselves' were chang'd. 
 
 By this the Priest who down the field had come 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
 Stopp'd short, and thence, at leisure, limb by- 
 limb, 
 He scann'd him with a gay complacency. 
 Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 
 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of the world's business, to go wild alone: 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday; 
 The happy man will creep about tbe fields 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 
24 
 
 Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus 
 Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 
 The good man might have commun'd with 
 
 himself, 
 But that the Stranger, who had left the grave, 
 Approach'd; he reeogniz'd 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 cannot be rememberM. Scarce a funeral 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen 
 
 months ; 
 And yet, some changes must take place among 
 
 you, 
 And you, who dwell here, even among these 
 
 rocks 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten 
 
 We are not all that perish. 1 remember, 
 
 For many years ago I pass'd this road, 
 There was a foot- way all along the fields 
 
25 
 
 By the brook- side— 'tis gone — and that dark 
 
 cleft! 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face which 
 
 then it had. 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Why, Sir, for aught I know, 
 That chasm is much the same — ■ 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But, surely, yonder — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Aye, there indeed, your memory is a friend 
 That does not play you false.-^On that tall 
 
 pike, 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 
 There were two Springs which bubbled side 
 
 by side, 
 As if they had been made that they might be 
 Companions for each other; ten years back, 
 Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag 
 Was rent with lightning — one is dead and gone, 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still. 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these, 
 Why we have store of them] a water-spout 
 Will bring down half a mountain • what a feast 
 For folks that wander up and down like you,,. 
 
 Vol. If. C 2 
 
26 
 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide elifF 
 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 raven's, or a Shepherd dies 
 By some untoward death among the rocks : 
 The ice breaks up, and sweeps away a bridge — 
 A wood is fell'd: — and then for our own 
 
 homes I 
 A child is born or christen'd, a field plough 'd, 
 A daughter sent to service, a webb spun, 
 The old house-clock is deck'd with a new face ; 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates - 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 A pair of Diaries, one serving, Sir, 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side ; 
 Your's was a Stranger's judgment - } for histo- 
 rians 
 Commend me to these vallies. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Yet your church-yard 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
 To say that you are heedless of the past. 
 Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of 
 
 brass, 
 Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state, 
 Or emblem of our hopes ; the dead man's home 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture field. 
 
 
27 
 
 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 moun- 
 tains : 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Your dalesmen, then, do in each others thoughts 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 Of half these Graves ? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 With what I've witness'd, and with what I've 
 
 heard, 
 Perhaps I might ; and on a winter's evening, 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one, 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a strange 
 
 round, 
 Yet all in the broad high-way of the world. 
 
-28 
 
 Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon It, 
 It looks just like the rest, and yet that man 
 Died broken-hearted ! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 'Tis a common case, 
 We'll take another: Who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three 
 
 graves ; — 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the church-yard wall.. 
 
 PRIEST- 
 
 That's Walter Ewbank. 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 As ever were produc'd by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 For five long generations had the heart 
 Gf Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage, 
 You see it yonder, and those few green fields, 
 They toil'd and wrought, and still, from sire 
 
 to son, 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little — yet a little — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still preserv'd 
 A chearful mind, and buffeted with bond, 
 
29 
 
 Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank. 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that spurr'd 
 
 him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale: 
 His pace was never that of an old man : 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two Grandsons after him — but you, 
 Unless our landlord be your host to-night, 
 Have far to travel, and in these rough paths 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer— 
 
 LEONARD. 
 But these two Orphans ! 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Orphans ! such they were — 
 Yet not while Walter hVd — for, though their 
 
 parents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
 The old man was a father to the boys, 
 Two fathers in one father ! And if tears 
 Shed, when he talk'd of them where they were 
 
 not, 
 And hauntings from the infirmity of love, 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart, 
 This old man in the day of his old age 
 Was half a mother to them. — If vou weep, Sir, 
 
30 
 
 To hear a stranger talking about strangers, 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your 
 
 kindred ! 
 Aye. You may turn that way — it is a grave 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 These boys, I hope 
 They lov'd this good old Man — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 They did — and truly ; 
 But that was what we almost overlook'd, 
 They were such darlings of each other. For, 
 Though from their cradles they had lived with 
 
 Walter, 
 The only kinsman near them in the house, 
 Yet he being old, they had much love to spare* 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 
 Was two years taller ; 'twas a joy to see, 
 To hear, to meet them ! From their house the- 
 
 school 
 Was distant three short miles, and in the time 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 
 And unbridg'd stream, such as you may have 
 
 notic'd 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, 
 
 
31 
 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps 
 Remain'd at home, go staggering thro' the fords 
 Bearing his Brother on his back — I've seen him 
 On windy davs, in one of those stray brooks, 
 Aye, more than once I've seen him mid leg deep, 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone 
 Upon the hither side ; — and once I said, 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, 
 That God who made the Great Book of the 
 
 World 
 Would bless such Piety — - 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It may be then — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Never did worthier lads break English bread : 
 The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 
 Could never keep these boys away from church, 
 Or tempt them to an hour of Sabbath breach. 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 Where foot could come, to one or both of them 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grew 
 
 there. 
 Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the 
 
 hills: 
 
32 
 
 They piay'd like two young ravens on the crags : 
 Then they could write, aye and speak too, as 
 
 well 
 As many of their betters — and for Leonard ! 
 The very night before he went away, 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 A Bible, and I'd wager twenty pounds, 
 That, if he is alive, he has it yet. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 It seems, these brothers have not liv'd to be 
 A comfort to each other. — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 That they might 
 Live to that end, is what both old and young 
 In this our valley all of us have wish'd, 
 And what, for my part, I have often pray'd : 
 But Leonard — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 Then James still is left among you — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking: 
 They had an Uncle, he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and traffick'd on the seas : 
 And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud. 
 
 
33 
 
 For the Boy loved the life which we lead here: 
 And though a very Stripling, twelve years old, 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 
 The estate and house were sold, and all their 
 
 sheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years. 
 Well — all was gone, and they were destitute : 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his brother's sake, 
 Resolv'd to try his fortune on the seas. 
 'Tis now twelve years since we had tidings 
 
 from him. 
 If there was one among us who had heard 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, 
 From the great Gavel,* downby Leeza's Banks, 
 And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
 
 Vol. II. D 
 
 * The great Gavel, s« called, I imagine, from its 
 resemblance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the 
 highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at 
 the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, 
 and Borrowdale. 
 
 The Leeza is a River which follows into the Lake 
 of Ennerdale : on issuing from the Lake it changes 
 its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna, It 
 falls into the sea a little below Egremont. 
 
34 
 
 The day would he 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 hira 
 He was in slavery among the Moors 
 Upon the Barbary coast — 'Twas not a little 
 That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt, 
 Before it ended in his Death, the Lad 
 Was sadly cross'd. — Poor Leonard ! when we 
 
 parted, 
 He took me by the hand and said to me, 
 If ever the day came when he was rich 
 He would return., and on his Father's Land 
 He would grow old among us. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 If that day 
 Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for 
 
 him ; 
 He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then 
 As any that should meet him— 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Happy, Sir! — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 You said "his kindred al^ were in their graves, 
 And that he had one Brother — 
 
 
■■-. 
 
 35 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 That is but 
 A fellow tale of sorrow ! From his youth 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate, 
 And Leonard being always by his side . 
 Had done so many offices about him, 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature, 
 Yet still the spirit of a Mountain-boy 
 In him was somewhat check'd, and when his 
 
 Brother 
 Was gone to sea and he was left alone, 
 The little colour that he had was soon 
 Stolen from his cheek, he droop 'd, and pin'd, 
 
 and pin'd : — 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But these are all the graves of full grown men! 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Aye, Sir, that pass M away; we took him to us: 
 He was the child of all the dale — he liv'd 
 Three months with one, and six months with 
 
 another, 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love, 
 And many, many happy days were his : 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
 And, when he liv'd beneath our roof, we found 
 
se 
 
 (A practice till this time unknown to him) 
 That often, rising from his bed at night, 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping, 
 He sought his Brother Leonard — You are 
 
 mov'd ! 
 Forgive me, Sir ! before I spoke to vou, 
 I judg'd you most unkindly. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 But this youth !* 
 How did he die at last? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 One sweet May morning, 
 It will be twelve years since when spring returns, 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd 
 
 lambs, 
 With two or three companions whom it chanced 
 Some further business summon'd to a house 
 Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir'd 
 
 perhaps, 
 Or, from some other cause, remain'd behind. 
 You see yon precipice- — it almost looks 
 Like some vast building made of many crags, 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 That rises like a column from the vale, 
 Whence by our Shepherds it iscall'd, the Pillar, 
 James, pointing to its summit, over which 
 
37 
 
 They all had purpos'd to return together, 
 Inform 'd them, that he there would wait for 
 
 them : 
 They parted, and his comrades pass'd that way 
 Some two hours after, but they did not find 
 
 him 
 At the appointed place, a circumstance 
 Of which they took no heed • but one of them, 
 Going by chance, at night, into the house 
 Which at this time was James's home, there 
 
 learn' d 
 That nobody had seen him all that day : 
 The morning came, and still, he was unheard 
 
 of. 
 The neighbours were alarm'd, and to the Brook 
 Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere 
 
 noon 
 They found him at the foot of that same rock 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third 
 
 day after 
 I buried him, poor lad, and there he lies ! 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And that then is his grave ! — Before his death 
 You said that he saw many happy Years? 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 Aye, that he did — 
 Vol. II. D 2 
 
38 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And all went well with him— 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 If he had one, the lad had twenty homes. 
 
 LEONARD. 
 
 And you believe then that his mind was easy — 
 
 PRIEST. 
 
 YeSj long before he died, he found that time^ 
 Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless 
 His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luck- 
 less 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 mention'd 
 A habit which disquietude and grief 
 Had brought upon him, and we. all conjectur'd 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades 
 He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 
S9 
 
 Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen 
 
 headlong ; 
 And so no doubt he perish' d: At the time, 
 We guess, that in his hands he must have had 
 His Shepherd's staff; for mid- way in the cliff 
 It had been caught, and there for many years 
 It hung— and moulder 'd there. 
 
 The Priest here ended — 
 The -Stranger would have thank'd him, but he 
 
 felt 
 Tears rushing in: Both left the spotin silence, 
 And Leonard, when they reach'd the church- 
 yard gate, 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, "My 
 
 Brother!" 
 The Vicar did not hear the words : And now, 
 Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 
 The other thank'd him with a fervent voice* 
 But added, that, the evening being calm, 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove 
 That overhung the road; he there stopp'd 
 
 short, 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd 
 All that the Priest had said: His early years 
 
40 
 
 Were with him in his heart : His cherish'd 
 
 hopes, 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour be- 
 fore, 
 All press'd on him with such a weight, that 
 
 now, 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd 
 A place in which he could not bear to live : 
 So he relinquish' d all his purposes. 
 He traveled on to Egremont; and thence, 
 That night, address'd a letter to the Priest, 
 Reminding him, of what had pass'd between 
 
 them. 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven, 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart, 
 He had not dared to tell him, who he was. 
 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 
 
41 
 
 ELLEN ERWIN, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 BRdES 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. 
 
 * The Kirtle k a river in the southern part of Scot- 
 land, on whose banks the events here related took 
 place. 
 
42 
 
 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 proclaim'd with truth,. 
 If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely, 
 The Gordon loves as dearly. 
 
 But what is Gordon's beauteous face ? 
 And what are Gordon's Crosses 
 To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes 
 Upon the verdant mosses ? 
 Alas that ever he was born ! 
 The Gordon, coucli'd behind a thorn, 
 Sees them and their caressing, 
 Beholds them bless'd and blessing. 
 
 Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts 
 That through his brain are travelling, 
 And, starting up, at Bruce's heart 
 He launched a deadly jav'lin ! 
 Fair Ellen saw it when it came, 
 And, stepping forth to meet the same, 
 Did with her body cover 
 The Youth her chosen lover. 
 
43 
 
 And, falling into Brace's arms, 
 Thus died the beauteous Ellen, 
 Thus from the heart of her true-love 
 The mortal spear repelling. 
 And Bruce, as soon as he had slain 
 The Gordon, saiFd away to Spain, 
 /And fought with rage incessant 
 Against the Moorish Crescent. 
 
 But many days, and many months, 
 And many years ensuing, 
 This wretched Knight did vainly seek 
 The death that he was wooing : 
 So coming back across the wave, 
 Without a groan on Ellen's grave 
 His body he extended, 
 And there his sorrow ended. 
 
 Now ye who willingly have heard 
 The tale I have been telling, 
 May in Kirkonnel church-yard view 
 The grave of lovely Ellen : 
 By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid, 
 And for the stone upon his head, 
 May no rude hand deface it, 
 And its forlorn Hie jacet. 
 
44 
 
 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 loVd, was strong and gay 
 And like a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way 
 Beneath the evening moon. 
 
 Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, 
 
 All over the wide lea, 
 
 My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
45 
 
 And now we reach'd the orchard plot, 
 And as we climb'd the hill, 
 Towards the roof of Lucy's cot 
 The moon descended still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while, my eyes I kept 
 On the descending moon. 
 
 My horse mov'd on ; hoof after hoof 
 He rais'd, and never stopp'd: 
 When down behind the cottage roof 
 At once the Planet dropp'd. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 
 
 Into a Lover's head — 
 
 " O Mercy!" to myself I cried, 
 
 " If Lucy should be dead!" 
 
 Vol. II. E 
 
46 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SHE dwelt among th' untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there wer-e none to praise 
 
 And very few to love. 
 
 A Violet by a mossy stone 
 Half hidden from the eye! — 
 
 fair, as a Star when only one 
 Js shining in the sky ! 
 
 She liv* d unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceas ? d to be ; 
 But she is in her Grave, and Oh ! 
 
 The difference to me. 
 
41 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal, 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seem'd a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion has she now, no force 
 She neither hears nor sees; 
 
 RolPd round in earths diurnal course 
 With rocks and. stones and trees! 
 
48 
 
 THE 
 
 WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE. 
 
 " BEGONE thou fond presumptuous Elf," 
 
 Exclaim'd a thundering Voice, 
 
 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 " Between me and my choice}" 
 
 A falling Water swoln with snows 
 
 Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, 
 
 That all bespatter'd with his foam, 
 
 And dancing high, and dancing low, 
 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 " Dost Thou presume my course to block ? 
 
 "Off! off! or, puny Thing! 
 
 " I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
 
 " To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The flood was tyrannous and strong; 
 
 The patient Briar suffer'd long, 
 
49 
 
 Nor- did he utter groan or sigh, 
 Hoping the danger would be pass ? d r 
 But seeing no relief, at last 
 He ventur'd to reply. 
 
 * Ah ! (said the Briar) Blame me not ! ' 
 Why should we dwell in strife? 
 We who in this > our natal spot, 
 Gnce liv'd a happy life ! 
 You stirr'd me on my rocky bed,— 
 What pleasure thro' my veins you spread? 
 The summer long from day to day 
 My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'dj , 
 Nor was it common gratitude 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 ' When Spring came on, with bud and bell^ 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreath, to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh ! 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours 
 
 I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; 
 
 And in my leaves, now shed and gone, 
 
 The linnet lodg'd, and for us two 
 
 Chaunted his-pretty songs, when you- 
 
 Had little voice or none. 
 
 Vol. II. E2 
 
50 
 
 * But now proud thoughts arc in your breast- 
 
 What grief is mine you see ; 
 
 Ah ! would you think, ev*n yet how blest 
 
 Together we might be ! 
 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft > 
 
 Some ornaments to me are left — 
 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,. 
 
 With which I in my humble way 
 
 Would deck you many a Winter'i day 
 
 A happy Eglantine !.' 
 
 What more he said^ I cannot tell : 
 
 The stream came thundering down the dell 
 
 And gallop'd loud and fast; 
 
 I listen'd, nor aught else could hear, 
 
 The Briar quak'd, and much I fear, 
 
 Those accents were his last. 
 
51 
 
 THI 
 
 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 thro' 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.. 
 
 c I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 
 * As ever tempest beat ! 
 
 ' Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 
 f A Broom out of its feet. 
 
52 
 
 * The time was March, a chearful noon^— 
 ' The thaw- wind with the breath of June 
 
 ' Breath'd gently from the warm South-west}- 
 *- When in a voice sedate with age 
 6 This Oak, half giant and half sage,. 
 
 * His neighbour thus address'd. 
 
 " Eight weary weeks* thro' rock and clay, 
 
 u Along this mountain's edge 
 
 " The frost hath wrought both night and day, 
 
 ** Wedge driving after wedge. 
 
 ** Look up, and think, above your head- 
 
 <i 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 J 
 
 " You are preparing as before 
 
 " To deck your slender shape; 
 
 " And yet, just three years back — no more — 
 
 u You had a strange escape ! 
 
 " Down from yon cliff a fragment broke, 
 
 " It came, you know, with fire and smoks, 
 
 " And hither did it bend its -way: 
 
 " This pond'rous block was caught by me, 
 
 ° And o'er your head, as you maysee, 
 
 •* Tis hanging to thisu*ay. 
 
5S 
 
 " The Thing had better been asleep, 
 
 " Whatever thing it were, 
 
 " Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep 
 
 " That first did plant you there. 
 
 " For you, and your green twigs, decoy 
 
 *" The little witless Shepherd-boy 
 
 " To come and slumber in your bower; 
 
 " And trust me, on some sultry noon, 
 
 " Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon 
 
 •• Will perish in one hour. 
 
 *< From me this friendly warning take"— 
 > — The Broom began to doze, 
 And thus to keep herself awake 
 Did gently interpose. 
 
 * My thanks for your discourse are due; 
 
 * That it is true, and more than true, 
 
 * I know, and I have known it long : 
 ' Frail is the bond by which we hold 
 
 * Our being, be we young or old, 
 
 f Wise, foolish, weak, or strong, — < 
 
 ' Disasters, do the best we can, 
 ' Will reach both Great and Small; 
 i And he is oft the wisest man, 
 * Who is not wise at all* 
 
5* 
 
 * For me, why should I wish to roamf 
 
 * This spot is my paternal home, 
 
 * It is my pleasant Heritage ; 
 
 * My Father many a happy year 
 
 i Here spread his careless blossoms* here- 
 ' Attain'd a good old age. 
 
 6 Even such as his- may be my lot: 
 
 * What cause have I to haunt 
 
 ' My heart with terrors? Am I not 
 
 * In truth a favour'd. Plant! 
 
 * The Spring for me a garland weaves^ 
 ** Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, 
 
 * And, when the Frost is in the sky, 
 
 * My branchesare so fresh and gay 
 
 ' That You- might look on me and say 
 '-This Plant can never die. 
 
 * The Butterfly all green- and gold, 
 
 * To me hath often flown, 
 
 * Here in my Blossoms to behold 
 ( Wings lovely as his own. 
 
 ' When grass is chill with sain of dew, 
 
 * Beneath my shade the mother ewe 
 
 * Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 
 
 ' The love, they to each other make, 
 ' And the sweet joy, which they partake*- 
 c Tt is a joy tome.' 
 
$5 
 
 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 feed and murmur there. 
 
 One night the Wind came from the North 
 
 And blew a furious blast, 
 
 At break of day I ventur'd forth 
 
 And near the cliff I pass'd: 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak ' 
 
 And struck him with a mighty stroke, 
 
 And whirl'd, and whirl'd him far away; 
 
 And in one hospitable Cleft 
 
 The little careless Broom was left 
 
 To live for many a day. 
 
SB 
 
 LUCY GRAY. 
 
 OFT had I heard of Lucy Gray, 
 And when I cross'd the Wild, 
 I chanc'd to see at break of day 
 The solitary Child. 
 
 N6 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 lanthern, Child, to light 
 " Your mother thro* the snow." 
 
$1 
 
 * That, Father! will I gladly do; 
 
 * 'Tis scarcely afternoon— 
 
 1 The Minster-clock has just struck Two, 
 1 And yonder is the Moon ! 
 
 At this the Father rais'd his hook 
 And snapp'd a faggot-band ; 
 He plied his work, and Lucy took 
 The lanthern in her hand: 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe ; 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time, 
 She wander'd up and down, 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb, 
 But never reach'd the Town. 
 
 The wretched Parents all that night 
 Went shouting rar and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day -break on a hill they stood 
 That overlook'd the Moor ; ■ 
 
 And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood 
 A furlong from their door : 
 
 Vol. II. F 
 
58 
 
 And now they homeward tqrn'd, and cry'd 
 u In Heaven we all shall meet!" 
 When in the snow the Mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downward from the steep hill's edge 
 They track'd the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
 And by the long stone- wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they cross'd, 
 The marks were still the same; 
 They track'd them on, nor ever lost, 
 And to the Bridge they came. 
 
 They follow'd from the snowy bank 
 The footmarks, one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank, 
 And further there were none. 
 
 Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living Child, 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome Wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
59 
 THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS; 
 
 OR 
 
 DUNGEON-GILL FORCE* 
 
 THE valley rings with mirth and joy; 
 
 Among the hills the Echoes play 
 
 A never, never ending song 
 
 To welcome in the May. 
 
 The Magpie chatters with delight; 
 
 The mountain Raven's youngling Brood 
 
 Have left the Mother and the Nest, 
 
 And they go rambling east and west 
 
 In search of their own food, 
 
 Or thro' the glittering vapors dart 
 
 In very wantonness of heart. 
 
 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. 
 
 ♦Gill, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmore- 
 land, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow 
 valley, with a stream running through it. Force is 
 the word universally empleyed in thesi dialects for 
 Water-fall. 
 
60 
 
 On pipes of sycamore they play 
 
 The fragments of a Christmas Hymn, 
 
 Or, with that plant which in our dale 
 
 We call Stag-horn, or Fox's tail, 
 
 Their rusty hats they trim : 
 
 And thus as happy as the day 
 
 Those Shepherds wear the time away. 
 
 III. 
 
 Along the river's stony marge 
 
 The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song ; 
 
 The thrush is busy hi the wood, 
 
 And carols loud and strong. 
 
 A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 
 
 All newly born ! both earth and sky 
 
 Keep jubilee, and more than all, 
 
 Those boys with their green Coronal, 
 
 They never hear the Cry, 
 
 That plaintive Cry ! which up the hill 
 
 Comes from the depth of Dungeon Gill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Said Walter (leaping from the ground) 
 " Down to the stump of yon old Yew 
 " I'll run with you a race." — No more — 
 Away the Shepherds flew. 
 They leapt, they ran, and when they came 
 Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill, 
 Seeing, that he should lose the prize, 
 " Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries: — 
 James stopp'd with no good will : 
 Said Walter then, " Your task is here, 
 " 'Twill keep you working half a year : 
 
61 
 
 " Till you have crossM where I shall cross, 
 
 " Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat." 
 
 James proudly took him at his word, 
 
 But did not like the feat: 
 
 It was a spot which you may see 
 
 If ever you to Langdale go : 
 
 Into a chasm a mighty block 
 
 Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock ; 
 
 The gulph is deep below, 
 
 And in a bason black and small 
 
 Receives a lofty Waterfall. 
 
 VL 
 
 With staff in hand across the cleft 
 The Challenger began his march ; 
 And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd 
 The middle of the arch : 
 When list ! he hears a piteous moan- 
 Again ! his heart within him dies — 
 His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost, 
 He totters, pale as any ghost r 
 And, looking down, he spies 
 A Lamb, that in the pool is pent 
 Within that black and frightful rent. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The lamb had slipp'd into the stream, 
 And safe, without a bruise or wound, 
 The cataract had borne him down. 
 Into the gulph profound. 
 Vol. II. F2 
 
62 
 
 His dam had seen him when he fell, 
 
 She saw him down the torrent borne ; 
 
 And while with all a mother's love 
 
 She from the lofty rocks above 
 
 Sent forth a Cry forlorn, 
 
 The Lamb, still swimming round and round 
 
 Made answer to that plaintive sound. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When he had learnt what thing it was, 
 That sent this rueful cry ; I ween, 
 The Boy recover' d heart, and told 
 The sight which he had seen. 
 Both gladly now deferr'd their task : 
 Nor was there wanting other aid — 
 A Poet, one who loves the brooks 
 Far better than the Sages' books, 
 By chance had thither stray 'd; 
 And there the helpless Lamb he found 
 By those huge rocks encompass'd round. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He drew it gently from the pool, 
 
 And brought it forth into the light: 
 
 The Shepherds met him with his charge 
 
 An unexpected sight ! 
 
 Into their arms the Lamb they took, 
 
 Said they, " He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd ;' 
 
 Then up the steep ascent they hied 
 
 And placed him at his Mother's side ; 
 
 And gently did the Bard 
 
 Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, 
 
 And bade them better mind their trade. 
 
63 
 
 *T1S said, that some have died for Love: 
 And here and there a church-yard grave is found 
 In the cold North's unhallowM ground, 
 Because the wretched man himself had slain, 
 His Love was such a grievous pain. 
 And there is one whom I five years have known ; 
 He dwells alone 
 Upon Helvellyn's side* 
 
 He loved ! The pretty Barbara died, 
 
 And thus he makes his moan : 
 
 Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid 
 
 When thus his moan he made. — 
 
 " Oh ! move thou Cottage from behind that 
 
 Oak 
 Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, 
 That in some other way yon smoke 
 May mount into the sky ! 
 The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens 
 
 depart. 
 I look — the sky is empty space; 
 I know not what I trace ; 
 But when I cease to look, my hand is on my 
 
 heart 
 
64 
 
 " O ! what a weight is in these shades ! Ye 
 
 leaves, 
 When will that dying murmur be suppress'd? 
 Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, 
 It robs ray 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 songj or chuse another tree. 
 
 " Roll back, sweet rill ! back to thy mountain 
 
 bounds, 
 And there for ever be thy waters chain' d! 
 For thou dost haunt the air with sounds 
 That cannot be sustain'd; 
 If still beneath that pine-tree ? s ragged bough 
 Headlong yon waterfall must come, 
 Oh! let it then be dumb! — 
 Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou 
 
 art now. 
 
 ** Thou- Eglantine whose arch so proudly 
 
 towers, 
 (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) 
 Thou one fair shrub, Oh ! shed th_y flowers, 
 And stir not in the gale; 
 
6i 
 
 For thus to see thee nodding in the air, 
 To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, 
 Thus rise and thus descend, 
 Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can 
 bear." 
 
 The man who makes this feverish complaint 
 Is one of giant stature, who could dance 
 Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail. 
 Ah gentle Love ! if ever thought was thine 
 To store up kindred hours for me, thy face 
 Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk 
 Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know 
 Such Happiness as I have known to-day. 
 
£6 
 
 POOR SUSAN. 
 
 AT the corner of Woodstreet, when day-light 
 
 appears, 
 There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung 
 
 for three years : 
 Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment ! what ails her ? 
 
 She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ! 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury 
 
 glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale of 
 
 Cheapside ! 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the 
 
 dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripp'd with her 
 
 pail, 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
 The only one dwelling on earth that she loves ! 
 
«T 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in Heaven ; but 
 
 they fade, 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the shade ! 
 The stream will* not flow, and the hill will 
 
 not rise, 
 And the colours have all pass'd away from her 
 
 eyes ! 
 
 Poor Outcast ! return — to receive thee once 
 
 more 
 The house of thy Father will open its door, 
 And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, 
 May'st hear the.Thrush sing from a tree of its 
 
 own. 
 
€8 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 For the Spot where the Hermitage stood on 
 
 SL Herbert's Island, Derwent Water. 
 
 IF thou in the dear love of some one friend 
 Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what 
 
 thoughts 
 Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love 
 Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence 
 This quiet spot. — St. Herbert hither came, 
 And here, for many -seasons, from the world 
 Remov'd, and the affections of the world, 
 He dwelt in solitude. He living here, 
 This island's sole inhabitant ! had left 
 A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Manlov'd 
 As his own soul ; and when within his cave 
 Alone he knelt before the Crucifix, 
 While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore 
 Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pae'd 
 Along the beach of this small isle and thought 
 Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both 
 Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain 
 So pray'd he: — as our Chronicles report, 
 Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, 
 Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, 
 Those holy men both died in the same hour. 
 
INSCRIPTION 
 
 For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island 
 at Grasmere. 
 
 RUDE is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen 
 Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd 
 Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd 
 To somewhat of a closer fellowship 
 With the ideal grace. Yet as it is 
 Do take it in good part ; for he, the poor 
 Vitruvious of our village, had no help 
 From the great city; never On the leaves 
 Of red Morocco folio saw display'd 
 The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts 
 Of, Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, 
 Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed, and Her- 
 mitage. 
 It is a homely pile, yet to these walls 
 The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here 
 The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the 
 wind. 
 
 Vol. II. G 
 
70 
 
 And hither does one Poet sometimes row 
 His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled 
 With plenteous store of heath and wither'd 
 
 fern, 
 A lading which he with his sickle cuts 
 Among the mountains, and beneath this roof 
 He makes his summer couch, and here at noon 
 Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the 
 
 sheep, 
 Panting beneath the burthen of their wool, 
 Lie round him, even as if they were a part 
 Of his own household: nor, while from his bed 
 He through that door-place looks towards the 
 
 lake 
 And to the stirring breezes, does he want 
 Creations lovely as the work of sleep, 
 Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy. 
 
71 
 
 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. 
 
12 
 
 Look but at the gardener's pride,. 
 
 How he glories, when he sees 
 
 Roses, lilies, side by side, 
 
 Violets in families. 
 
 Ey 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 1 live through sun and rain 
 Seven widow'd years without my Jane, 
 O Sexton ! do not then remove her, 
 Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover. 
 
73 
 
 ANDREW JONES. 
 
 
 I hate that Andrew Jones: He'll breed 
 His children up to waste and pillage. 
 I wish the press-gang, or the drum 
 With its Tantara sound would come, 
 And sweep him from the village ! 
 
 I said not this because he loves 
 
 Through the long day to swear and tipple ; 
 
 But for the poor dear sake of one 
 
 To whom a foul deed he had done, 
 
 A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple ! 
 
 For this poor crawling helpless wretch 
 Some horseman who was passing by, 
 A penny on the ground had thrown; 
 But the poor Cripple was alone 
 And could not stoop — no help was nigh* 
 
 Vol. IL G 2 
 
74 
 
 Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground 
 For it had long been droughty weather 
 So with his staff the Cripple wrought 
 Among the dust till he had brought 
 The halfpennies together. 
 
 It chancM that Andrew pass'd that way 
 Just at the time ; and there he found 
 The Cripple in the mid-day heat 
 Standing alone, and at his feet 
 He saw the penny on the ground. 
 
 He stopp'd and took the penny up: 
 And when the Cripple nearer drew, 
 Quoth Andrew, " Under half-a-crown, 
 " What a man finds is all his own, 
 " And so my friend good day to you.'* 
 
 And hence I said, that Andrew's boys 
 Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; 
 And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum 
 With its Tantara sound, would come, 
 And sweep hitn from the village. 
 
75 
 
 THE 
 
 TWO THIEVES. 
 
 OR THE LAST STAGE OF 
 
 AVARICE. 
 
 OH now that the genius of Bewick were mine ! 
 And the skill which he learn'd, on the Banks 
 
 of the Tyne; 
 When the Muses might deal with me just as 
 
 they chose, 
 For I'd take my last leave both of verse and 
 
 of prose. 
 
 "What feats would I work with my magical 
 hand! 
 
 Book-learning and Books should be banish'd 
 the land, 
 
 And for hunger and thirst, and such trouble- 
 some calls, 
 
 Every ale-house should then have a feast on 
 its walls. 
 
76 
 
 The Traveller would hang his wet clothes 01 
 
 a chair, 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw 
 
 would he care, 
 For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his 
 
 Sheaves 
 Oh what would they be to my Tale of two 
 
 Thieves! 
 
 little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth 
 
 days old, 
 His Grandsire that age more than thirty times 
 
 told, 
 There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul 
 
 weather 
 Between them, and both go a stealing together. 
 
 With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor ? 
 Is a cart-load of peats at an old woman's door? 
 Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide, 
 And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side. 
 
 Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye 
 Through the lost look of dotage is cunning 
 
 and sly. 
 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his 
 
 own, 
 But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 
 
17 
 
 Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the 
 
 wires 
 Of manifold pleasures and many desires : 
 And what if he cherish'd his purse ? 'Twas no 
 
 more 
 Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 
 
 'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is 
 one 
 
 Who went something farther than others have 
 gone; 
 
 And now with old Daniel you see how it fares, 
 
 You see to what end he has brought his grey- 
 hairs. 
 
 The pair sally forth hand in hand ; ere the sun 
 Has peer'do'er the beeches their work is begun: 
 And yet into whatever sin they may fall,. 
 This Child but half knows it, and that not at 
 all. 
 
 They hunt through the street with deliberate 
 
 tread, 
 And each in his turn is both leader and led ; 
 And wherever they carry their plots and their 
 
 wiles, 
 Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 
 
78 
 
 Neither checked by the rich nor the needy 
 
 they roam, 
 For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home ; 
 Who will gladly repair all the damage that's 
 
 done, 
 And three, were it ask'd, would be render' d 
 
 for one. 
 
 Old Man ! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd, 
 I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side : 
 Long yet mayst thou live, for a teacher we 
 
 see 
 That lifts up the Veil of our Nature in Thee. 
 
73 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
 Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound : 
 Then all at once the air was still, 
 And showers of hail-stones patter'd round. 
 Where leafless Oaks tower' d high above 
 I sate within an undergrove 
 Of tallest hollies, tall and green, 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er, 
 You could not lay a hair between: 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 But see I where'er the hail-stones drop 
 The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, 
 There's not a breeze— no breath of air — 
 Yet here, and there, and every where 
 Along the floor, beneath the shade 
 By those embowering hollies made, 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring, 
 As if with pipes and music rare 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were there, 
 And all those leaves that jump and spring, 
 Were each a joyous living thing. 
 
 Oh ! Grant me Heaven a heart at ease 
 That I may never cease to rind 
 Even in appearances like these 
 Enough to nourish and to stir my mind ! 
 
so 
 
 < 
 
 SONG 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 WANDERING JEW. 
 
 THOUGH the torrents from their fountains 
 Roar down many a craggy steep, 
 Yet they find among the mountains 
 Resting-places calm and deep. 
 
 Though almost with eagle pinion 
 O'er the rocks the Chamois roam, 
 Yet he has some small dominion 
 Which no doubt he calls his home. 
 
 If on windy days the Raven 
 Gambol like a dancing skiff, 
 Not the less he loves his haven 
 On the bosom of the cliff. 
 
 Though the Sea-horse in the oceaii 
 Own no dear domestic cave; 
 Yet he slumbers without motion 
 On the calm and silent wave. 
 
 Day and night my toils redouble ! 
 Never nearer to the goal, 
 Night and day, I feel the trouble, 
 Of the Wanderer in my soul. 
 
51 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 WHEN Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her father took another Mate, 
 And so, not seven years old, 
 The slighted Child at her own will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill 
 In thoughtless freedom bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw 
 And from that oaten pipe could draw 
 All sounds of winds and floods; 
 Had built a bower upon the green, 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 There came a Youth from Georgia's shore, 
 
 A military casque he wore 
 
 With splendid feathers drest; 
 
 He brought them from the Cherokees; 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 Vol. II. H 
 
82 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung ; 
 Ah no ! he spake the English tongue 
 And bear 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 Eoy 
 The moon, the glory of the sun, 
 And streams that murmur as they run, 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely Youth ! I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And when he chose to sport and play, 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the Tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought, 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 Of pleasure and of fear; 
 Such tales as told to any Maid 
 By such a Youth in the green shade 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
83 
 
 He told' of Girls, a happy rout, 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian Town, 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long, 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When day-light is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants divine and strange 
 That ev'ry day their blossoms change, 
 Ten thousand lovely hues ! 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers, 
 They stand thewonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews. 
 
 He told of the Magnolia,* spread 
 High as a cloud, high over-head ! 
 The Cypress and her spire, 
 Of flowers § that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fire. 
 
 * Magnolia grandiflora. 
 
 § The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, 
 which are scattered with such profusion over the hills 
 in the southern parts of North America, is frequent- 
 ly mentioned by Bartram in his Travels, 
 
84 
 
 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 houshold fire, and find 
 
 *• A Home in every glade. 
 
 " What days and what sweet years ! Ah mc! 
 
 " Our life were life indeed, with thee 
 
 " So pass'd in quiet bliss, 
 
 " And all the while (said he) to know 
 
 " That we were in a world of woe, 
 
 " On such an earth as this !" 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Dear thoughts about a father's love, 
 '* For there (said he) are spun 
 % Around the heart such tender ties 
 "That our own children to our eyes 
 " Are dearer than the sun. 
 
85 
 
 w Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me, 
 
 " My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 
 " Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 " Or run, my own adopted bride, 
 
 " A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 " And drive the flying deer. 
 
 "Beloved Ruth!" No more he said, 
 Sweet Ruth, alone, at midnight shed 
 A solitary tear;— - 
 She thought again— and did agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer.. 
 
 f* 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. 
 Vol. II. Jt 2 
 
86 
 
 But as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive gay and bold, 
 And with his dancing crest, 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roam'd about with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 
 The tumult of a Tropic sky, 
 
 Might well be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a Youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of earth, so much of Heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Irregular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seem'd allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less to feed voluptuous thought 
 The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
 The breezes their own languor lent, 
 The stars had feelings which they sent 
 Into those magic bowers. 
 
87 
 
 Yet in his worst pursuits I ween, 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent : 
 For passions link'd to forms so fair 
 And stately, needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he livM, much evil saw 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better life was known ; 
 Deliberately and undeceiv'd 
 Those wild men's vices he received, 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impair'd, and he became 
 The slave of low desires; 
 A man who without self controul 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
 And yet he with no feign'd delight 
 Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night 
 Had lov'd her, night and morn ! 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature play'd, 
 So kind and so forlorn? 
 
ss 
 
 But now the pleasant dream was gone, 
 No hope, no wish remainM, not one, 
 They sdrr'd him now no more; 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wish'd to live, 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus 'with him it fared, 
 They for the voyage were prepared 
 And went to the Sea-shore ; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find. him more.. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth! — Such pains she had 
 
 That she in half a year was mad 
 
 And in a prison hous'd, 
 
 And there, exulting in her wrongs* 
 
 Among the: music of her songs 
 
 She fearfully carouz'd. 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours- she knew, 
 Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, i 
 Nor pastimes of the May, 
 They all were with her in her cell, 
 And a wild brook with cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play, i 
 
69 
 
 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 lik'd her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breath'd again: 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free, 
 And to the pleasant banks of Tone* 
 She took her way, to dwell alone 
 Undeisthe_greehwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her grief, the tools 
 That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools, 
 And airs that gently stir 
 The vernal leaves, she loved them still, 
 Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 * The Tone is a river of Somersetshire at no great 
 distance from the Quantock Hills. These hills, 
 which are alluded to a few stanzas below, are ex- 
 tremely beautiful, and in most places richly cover- 
 ed with coppice woods* 
 
90 
 
 A Bam her winter bed supplies, 
 
 But till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And in this tale we all agree) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none 
 
 If she is pressM by want of food 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road side, 
 And there she begs at one steep place,. 
 Where up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers, ride* 
 
 That oaten pipe of hers is mute 
 Or thrown away, but with a flute- 
 Her loneliness she cheers ; 
 This flute made of a hemlock stalky . 
 At evening in his homeward walk, 
 The Quantock Woodman hears. 
 
 I too have pass'd her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild, 
 Such small machinery as she turn'd' 
 Ere .she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, 
 A young and happy Child ! 
 
51 
 
 Farewell ! and when thy $ays are told, 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth ! in haliow'd mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be ; 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian Psalm for Thee, 
 
 
9£ 
 
 LINUS 
 
 Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, tie largest 
 
 of a Heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon 
 
 one of the Islands at Rjdale, 
 
 Stranger ! this hillock of mis-shapen stones 
 
 Is not a ruin of the ancient time, 
 
 Nor, as perchance, thou rashly deem'st, the 
 
 Cairn 
 Of some old British Chief: 'Tis nothing more 
 Than the rude embryo of a little dome 
 Or pleasure-house, which was to have been 
 
 built 
 Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. 
 But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd, 
 That from the shore a full-grown man might 
 
 wade 
 And make himself a freeman of this spot 
 At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith 
 Desisted, and the quarry and the mound 
 
 Are monuments of his unfinished task. ■ 
 
 The block on which these lines are trac'd, per- 
 haps, 
 
93 
 
 Was once selected as the corner stone 
 Of the intended pile, which would have been 
 Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, 
 So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, 
 And other little builders who dwell here, 
 Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him 
 
 not, 
 For old Sir William was a gentle Knight, 
 Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd 
 With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, 
 And for the outrage which he had devis'd, 
 Entire forgiveness. — But if thou art one 
 On fire with thy impatience to become 
 An Inmate of these' mountains, if disturb'd 
 By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn 
 Out of the quiet rock the elements 
 Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze 
 In snow-white splendor, think again, and 
 
 taught 
 By old Sir William and his Quarry, leave 
 Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose ; 
 There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself 
 And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
9* 
 
 In the School of is a Tablet on 
 
 nvhich are inscribed, in gilt letter t, the Names of the 
 several persons nvho have been Schoolmasters there 
 since the foundation of the School, *with the time at 
 which they entered upon and quitted their office Op- 
 posite one of those Names the Author wrote the fol- 
 lowing 
 
 LINES, 
 
 IF Nature, for a favorite Child 
 In Thee hath temper 'd so her clay., 
 That every iiour thy heart runs wild 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 
 Read o'er these Lines; and then review 
 This Tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years- 
 
 — When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cypher and syllable, thine eye 
 Has travellM down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
95 
 
 And if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither cheek'd nor stay'd: 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made.- 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,. 
 Is silent as a standing pool, 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs 
 Of one tir'd out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eye* 
 Were tears of light, the oil of gladness. 
 
 Yet sometimes when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seem'd as if he nrank it up, 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 
 Thou happy soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold* 
 Are all that must remain of Thee? 
 
36 
 
 THE 
 
 TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 WJE walk'd along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning sun, .'..-.. 
 And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 
 " The Will of God be done ! " 
 
 A village Schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering grey ; 
 As blithe a man. as you could see 
 On a spring holiday^ 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass,! 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We traveird merrily to pass. 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work (said I) was well begun; 
 " Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 <f Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
 M So sad a sigh has brought? 7 ' 
 
or . 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop, 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top 
 To me he made reply.— 
 
 'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 ' Brings fresh into my mind 
 
 * A day like this which I have left 
 
 * Full thirty years behind. 
 
 * And on that slope of springing corn 
 
 * The self same crimson hue 
 
 ' Fell from the sky that April morn,, 
 ' The same which now I view ! 
 
 * With rod and line my silent sport 
 ' I plied by Derwent's wave, 
 
 * And coming to the church, stopp'd short 
 
 * Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 'Nine summers had she scarcely seen; 
 4 The pride of all the vale; 
 ' And then she sang! — she would have been 
 'A very nightingale. 
 
 * Six feet in earth my Emma lay, 
 
 * And yet I lov'd her more, 
 
 'For so it seem'd, than till that day 
 ' I e'er had lov'd before. 
 Vol. II. L2 
 
9S 
 
 * And, turning from her grave, I met 
 ■ Beside the church-yard Yew 
 
 ' A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 ' With points of morning dew. 
 
 ' A basket on her head she bear* 
 ' Her brow, was smooth and white, 
 ' To see a child so very fair, 
 
 * It was a pure delight! 
 
 'No fountain from its rocky cave 
 ' E'er tripp'd with foot so free, 
 4 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 6 That dances on the sea. 
 
 ' There came from me a sigh of pain 
 ' Which I could ill confine; 
 ' I fbok'd at her, and look'd again: 
 ' —-And did not wish her mine.' 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
 Methinks I see him stand, 
 As at that moment, with his bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. • 
 
9$ 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN, 
 
 A Conversation. . 
 
 WE talk'd with' open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true,- 
 A pair of Friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two ! 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, . 
 Beside a mossy sear, 
 And from the turf a fountain broke,, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 Now, Matthew, let us try to match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old ''Border-song, or Catch 
 That suits a summer's noon. 
 
 Or of the Church-clock and the Chimes 
 Sing, here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made i 
 
100 
 
 Oh silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old Man replied, 
 
 The grey-hair'd Man of glee. — 
 
 . ■ 
 
 "Down to the vale this water steers*. 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 Twill murmur on a thousand years,. 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 " And here, on this delightful day* 
 I cannot chuse but think 
 How oft, a vigorous Man, I, jay 
 Beside this Fountain's brink. 
 
 ** My eyes are dim with childish tears^ 
 My heart is idly stirr*d, 
 For the same sound is in my cars,. 
 Which in those days 1 heard, 
 
 " Thus fares it still in our decay;: 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The black-bird in the summer trees, 
 The lark upon the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
101 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife \ they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : . 
 
 " But we are press'd by heavy laws, 
 And often, glad no more* I 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there is one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own, 
 It is the Man of Mirth. 
 
 « My days, my friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approv'd* 
 And many love me, but by none 
 Am I enough belov'd!" 
 
 Now both himself and me he wrongs* 
 The man who thus complains ! 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains. 
 
 And Matthew, for thy Children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee ! 
 At this he grasp'd his hands, and said, 
 «' Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
1G& 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side, 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide, 
 And through the wood we went» 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock* 
 He sang those witty rhymes I 
 Abont the crazy old Church-clock, 
 And the bewilder'd Chimes* 
 
W 
 
 NUTTING. 
 
 -It seemM a day, 
 
 One of those heavenly days which cannot die, 
 When forth I sallied from our cottage door,* 
 And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung, 
 A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps 
 Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, 
 Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds 
 Put on for the occasion, by advice 
 And exhortation of my frugal Dame. 
 Motley accoutrements! of power to smile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and in 
 
 truth, 
 More ragged than need was. Among the 
 
 woods, 
 And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way 
 Until, at length, I came to one dear nook 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 
 •' The house at which I was boarded during the 
 time I was at School. 
 
104 
 
 Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious 
 
 sign 
 Of devastation, but the hazels rose 
 Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, 
 A virgin scene '!« — A little while I stood, 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 As joy delights in; and with wise restraint 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 The banquet, or beneath the trees 1 sate 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I 
 
 play'd; 
 A temper known to those, who, after long 
 And weary expectation, have been bless'd 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope.-*-* = . 
 —Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye, 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 For ever, and T saw the sparkling foam, 
 And with my cheek on one of those green stones 
 That fleec'd with •moss, beneath the shady 
 
 trees, 
 Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep, 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 Tribute to ease, and of its joy secure, 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
 
105 
 
 And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, 
 
 with crash 
 And merciless ravage ; and the shady nook 
 of hazels, and the green and mossy bower 
 Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being ; and unless I now 
 Confound my present feelings with the past, 
 Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away, 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 The silent trees and the intruding sky. — 
 
 Then dearest Maiden ! move along these 
 shades 
 In gentleness of heart with gentle hand 
 Touch, for there is a Spirit in the woods. 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
106 
 
 THREE years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier Flower 
 On earth was never sown; 
 This Child I to myself will take, 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 w 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. 
 
107 
 
 " The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her, for her the willow bend, 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see, 
 
 Even in the motions of the storm, 
 
 A beauty that shall mould her form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her, and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 *\ And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell, 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake — The work was done- 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 She died and left to me 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene, 
 The memory of what has been, 
 And never more will be. 
 
108 
 
 THE PE T.LAMB, 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to 
 blink ; 
 
 I heard a -voice, it said, Drink, pretty Crea- 
 ture! drink: 
 
 And looking o'er the hedge, before me I es- 
 pied, 
 
 A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden 
 at its side. 
 
 No other slieep were near, the Lamb was all 
 alone, 
 
 And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone ; 
 
 With one knee on the grass did the little Mai- 
 den kneel, 
 
 While to that mountain Lamb she gave its 
 evening meal. 
 
109 
 
 The Lamb while from her hand he thus his 
 
 supper took 
 Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his 
 
 tail with pleasure shook. 
 " Drink, pretty Creature! drink," she said in 
 
 such a tone 
 That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own. 
 
 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of 
 beauty rare, 
 
 I watch'd them with delight, they were a love- 
 ly pair. 
 
 And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd 
 away, 
 
 But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did 
 she stay. 
 
 Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that 
 shady place 
 
 I unobserv'd could see the workings of her 
 face : 
 
 If Nature to her tongue could measured num- 
 bers bring 
 
 Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid 
 would sing. 
 
 Vol. II. K 2 
 
110 
 
 " What ails thee Young-one,— What ? Why- 
 pull so at thy cord? 
 
 Is it not well with thee ? Well both for bed 
 and board ? 
 
 Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass 
 can be, 
 
 Rest little Young-one, rest ! What is't that 
 aileth thee? 
 
 " What is it thou would' st seek ? What is 
 
 wanting to thy heart ? 
 Thy limbs are they not strong ? And beautiful 
 
 thou art: 
 This grass is tender grass, these flowers they 
 
 have no peers, 
 And that green corn all day is rustling in thy 
 
 ears. 
 
 " If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy 
 
 woollen chain, 
 This beech is standing by, its covert thou 
 
 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. 
 
Ill 
 
 " Rest, little Young-one, rest ! Thou hast 
 
 forgot the day 
 When my father found thee first in places far 
 
 away: 
 Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert 
 
 own'd by none, 
 And thy Mother from thy side for evermore 
 
 was gone. 
 
 " He took thee In his- arms, and in pity brought 
 
 thee home, 
 A blessed day for thee ! then whither would'st 
 
 thou roam ? 
 A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did 
 
 thee yean 
 Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have 
 
 been. 
 
 f* Thou know'st that twice a day I have 
 
 brought thee in this Can 
 Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever 
 
 ran; 
 And twice in the day when the ground is wet 
 
 with dew, 
 I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it 
 
 is and new. 
 
112 
 
 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 
 
 they are now, 
 Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a poney 
 
 in the plough, 
 My playmate thou shalt be, and when the 
 
 wind is cold 
 Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 
 
 be thy fold. 
 
 " It will not, will not rest ! — poor Creature 
 can it be 
 
 That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working 
 so in thee ? 
 
 Things that I know not of belike to thee are 
 dear, 
 
 And dreams of things which thou cans't nei- 
 ther see nor hear. 
 
 " Alas ! the mountain tops that look so green 
 
 and fair ! 
 I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that 
 
 come there ; 
 The little brooks, that seem all pastime and 
 
 all play, 
 When they are angry, roar like lions for their 
 
 prey. 
 
113 
 
 r Here thou need'st not dread the Raven in 
 
 the sky, 
 He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard 
 
 Night and day thou art safe as living thing 
 
 can be, 
 Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth 
 
 thee?" 
 
 As homeward through the lane I went with 
 
 lazy feet, 
 This Song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, 
 And it seem'd as I rctrac'd the Ballad line by 
 
 line, 
 That but half of it was hers, and one half of 
 
 it was mine. 
 
 Again, and once again did I repeat the Song, 
 
 " Nay (said I) more than half to the Dam- 
 sel must belong, 
 
 For she look'd with such a look and she spake 
 with such a tone, 
 
 That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own." 
 
£14 
 
 Written in 
 GERMANY, 
 
 On one of the coldest Days of the Century. 
 
 1 must apprize the Reader that the 
 Stoves in North Germany generally have the Impres- 
 sion of a galloping Horse upon them, this being Part 
 tf the Brunswick Arms. 
 
 A Fig for your languages, German and Norse, 
 
 Let me have the Song of the Kettle, 
 
 And the Tongs and the Poker, instead of that 
 
 Horse 
 That gallops away with such fury and force 
 On this dreary dull plate of black metal. 
 
 Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff, 
 But her pulses beat slower and slower, 
 The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, 
 And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood 
 
 * low enough, 
 And now it is four degrees lower. 
 
115 
 
 Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps 
 A child of the field, or the grove, 
 And sorrow for him ! this dull treacherous heat 
 Has seduced the poor fool from his winter re- 
 treat, 
 And he creeps to the edge of my stove. 
 
 Alas ! how he fumbles about the domains 
 
 Which this comfortless oven environ, 
 
 He cannot find out in what track he must 
 
 crawl, 
 Now back to the tiles, and now back to the 
 
 wall, 
 And now on the brink of the iron : 
 
 Stock-still there he stands like a traveller be- 
 
 maz'd, 
 The best of his skill he has tried ; 
 His feelers methinks I can see him put forth 
 To the East and the West, and the South, and 
 
 the North, 
 But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. 
 
 See! his spindles sink under him-, foot, leg 
 
 and thigh, 
 His eye-sight and hearing are lost, 
 Between life and death his blood freezes and 
 
 thaws, 
 And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze 
 Are glued to his sides by the frost. 
 
lie 
 
 No Brother, no Friend has he near him, 
 
 while I 
 Can draw warmth from the cheek of my love, 
 As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, 
 As if green summer grass were the floor of my 
 
 room, 
 And woodbines were hanging above. 
 
 Yet God is my witness, thou small helpless 
 
 Thing, 
 Thy life I would gladly sustain 
 Till summer comes up from the Souths, and 
 
 with crowds 
 Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound 
 
 thro' the clouds, 
 And back to the forests sgain. 
 
in 
 
 THE 
 
 CHILDLESS FATHER. 
 
 UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away I 
 Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; 
 The Hare has just started from Hamilton's 
 
 grounds, 
 And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds. 
 
 ■ — Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet 
 
 and green, 
 On the slopes of the pastures all colours were 
 
 seen; 
 With their comely blue aprons and caps white 
 
 as snow, 
 The girls on the hills made a holiday show. 
 
 Vol. II. .L 
 
US 
 
 The bason of Box- wood,* just six months be* 
 
 fore, 
 Had stood on the table at Timothy's door, 
 A Coffin thro' Timothy's threshold had pass'd, 
 One Child did it bear, and that child was his 
 
 last. 
 
 Now fast up the dell came the noise and the 
 
 fray, 
 The horse and the horn, and the Hark ! Hark 
 
 away ! 
 Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 
 With a leizurely 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 hip 
 cheek. « 
 
 * In several parts of the North of England, vtfien 
 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 
 
 THE 
 
 OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 
 
 The Class of Beggars to nvhich the Old Man here 
 described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It 
 consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons 
 nvho confined themselves to a stated round in their 
 neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on ivhich, 
 at different houses, they regularly received charity \ 
 sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions, 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk, 
 And he was seated by the highway side 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 Who lead their horses down the steep rough 
 
 road 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged man 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth 
 
 stone 
 That overlays the pile, and from a bag 
 
120 
 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one* 
 And scann'dthem with a fix'd and serious look 
 .Of idle computation. In the sun, 
 Upon the second step of that small pile, 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 He sate, and eat his food in solitude; 
 And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand, 
 That still attempting to prevent the waste 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 Fell on the ground,, and the small mountain 
 
 birds, 
 Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 Approach'd within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known, and 
 
 then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now; 
 He travels on, a solitary man, 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering horseman-traveller does not 
 
 throw 
 With careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so, 
 But still when he has given his horse the rein 
 Towards the aged Beggar, turns a look, 
 Side-long and half-reverted. She who tends 
 The toll-gate, when in summer at her door 
 
121 
 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 The aged Beggar, in the woody lane, 
 Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance 
 The old Man does not change his course, the 
 
 Boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground; and evermore, 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, 
 And the blue-sky, one little span of earth 
 Is all his prospect.. Thus* from day to day,. 
 Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 He plies his weary journey, seeing still, 
 And never knowing that he sees, some straw, 
 Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one 
 
 track, 
 The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left 
 Impress'd on the white-road, in the same line, 
 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet 
 
 Vol. II. L 2 
 
122 
 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so stilt 
 In look and motion that the cottage curs, 
 Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, 
 And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by: 
 Him even the slow-pac'd waggon leaves behind. 
 
 But deem not this man useless. — Statesmen! ye 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye. 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands- 
 To rid the world of nuisances ; ye proud, 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contem- 
 plate 
 Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him 
 
 not 
 A burthen of the earth. 'Tis nature's law 
 That none, the meanest of created things, 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute, 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of goad, 
 A life and soul to every mode of being 
 Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps 
 From door to door, the Villagers in him 
 Behold a record which together binds 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, 
 Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives 
 
123 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 To selfishness and cold oblivious cares. 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 Hamlets, and thinly scattered villages, 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 To acts of love; and habit does the work 
 Of reason, yet prepares that after joy 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd 
 .Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd 
 To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like 
 
 these, 
 In childhood, from this solitary being, 
 This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd 
 (A thing more precious far thanall that books 
 Or the solicitudes of Love can do !) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, and like the pear 
 Which overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove 
 
124 
 
 Of their own kindred, all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons, 
 His charters and exemptions ; and perchance, 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, anJ to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, 
 And 'tis no vulgar service, makes the jn felt- 
 
 Yet further. Many, I believe, there are 
 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel 
 No self-reproach, who of the Moral Law 
 Established in the land where they abide 
 Are strict observers, and not negligent, 
 Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart 
 Or act of love to those with whom they dwell, 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! 
 —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor, 
 Go and demand of him, if there be here, 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, 
 And these inevitable charities, 
 
12$ 
 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human souL 
 No. — Man is dear to Man : The poorest poor 
 Long for some moments in a weary life, 
 When they can know and feel that they have 
 
 been 
 Themselves the fathers and the dealers out 
 Of some small blessings, have been kind to such 
 As needed kindness, for this single cause, 
 That we have all of us one human heart. 
 i — Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, 
 My Neighbour, when with punctual care each 
 
 week, 
 Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself 
 By her own wants, she from her chest of meal 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her doo? 
 Returning with exhiliratcd heart, 
 Sits by her fire and builds her hope in heav'n. 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his headf 
 And while, in that vast solitude to which 
 The tide of things has led him-, he appears 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant Law of Heaven 
 Has hung around him, and, while life is his, 
 Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers 
 To Render offices, and pensive thoughts. 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head ! 
 
126 
 
 And long as he can wander, let him breathe 
 The freshness of the vallies, let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows, 
 And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath 
 Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart- 
 May never House, misnamed of Industry,. 
 Make him a captive ; for that pent-up din, 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,. 
 Be his the natural silence of old age. 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes, 
 And have around him, whether heard or not, 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 Few are his pleasures ; ff his eyes, which now 
 Have been so long familiar with the earth, 
 No more behold the horizontal sun 
 Rising or setting,, let the light at least 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 And let him, where and when he will, sit down 
 Beneath the "trees, or by the grassy bank 
 Of high-way side, and with the little birds 
 Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally, 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived,. 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die. 
 
127 
 
 RURAL ARCHITECTURE, 
 
 There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, 
 
 and Reginald Shore, 
 Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest 
 
 not more 
 Than the height of a Counsellor's bag ; 
 To the top of Great How* did it please them 
 
 to climb, 
 And there they built up without mortar or lime 
 A Man on the Peak of the Crag. 
 
 * 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 Amble- 
 side. 
 
128 
 
 They built him of stones gather'd up as they 
 
 lay, 
 They built hirnandchristen'dhimall in one day, 
 An Urchin both vigorous and hale , 
 And so without scruple they calPd him Ralph 
 
 Jones : 
 Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his 
 
 bones, 
 The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. 
 
 Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth, 
 And/ in anger or merriment, out of the North, 
 Coming on with a terrible pother, 
 From the Peak of the Crag blew the Giant 
 
 away : 
 And what did these School-boys ? — The very 
 
 next day 
 They went and they built up another ! 
 
 — Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works 
 In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks 
 Spirits busy to do and undo : 
 At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes 
 
 will flag. 
 — Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the 
 
 Crag! 
 And I'll build up a Giant with you. 
 
129 
 
 A POET's EPITAPH. 
 
 ART thou a Statesmen, in the van 
 Of public business train'd and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then may'st thou think upon the dead, 
 
 A Lawyer art thou? — draw not nigh; 
 Co, carry to some other place 
 The hardness of thy coward eye, 
 The falsehood of thy sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a man of purple cheer? 
 A rosy man, right plump to see? 
 Approach ; yet Doctor, not too near : 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Art thou a man of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier, and no man of chaff? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside 
 And lean upon a Peasant's staff. 
 
 Vol. If. M 
 
130 
 
 Physician art thou ? One, all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave? 
 
 Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece 
 O turn aside, and take, I pray, 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 Thy pin-point of a soul away ! 
 
 — A Moralist perchance appears - y 
 Led, Heaven knows how \ to this poor sod: 
 And He has neither eyes nor ears: 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling 
 Nor form nor feeling great nor small, - 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 
 An intellectual All in All ! 
 
 Shut close the door ! press down the latch : 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust, 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is He with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
131 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noon-day grove .; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shews of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley he has view'd ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart 
 The harvest of a quiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak, both man and boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength, 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length , 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. lm 
 
132 
 
 A CHARACTER 
 
 In the antithetical Manner. 
 
 I marvel How Nature could ever find space 
 For the weight and the levity seen m his facer 
 There's thought and no thought, and there's 
 
 paleness and bloom, 
 And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and 
 
 gloom. 
 
 There's weakness, and strength, both redun- 
 dant and vain ; 
 
 Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain 
 
 Could pierce through a temper that's soft to 
 disease, 
 
 Would be rational peace — a Philosopher's ease. 
 
133 
 
 There's indifference, alike when he fails and 
 
 succeeds, 
 And attention full ten times as much as there 
 
 needs, 
 Pride where there's' no envy, there's so much 
 
 of joy, 
 And mildness, and spirit both forward and 
 
 coy. 
 
 There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident 
 stare 
 
 Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's 
 there. 
 
 There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, 
 
 Yet wants, Heaven knows what, to be wor- 
 thy the name. 
 
 What a picture! 'tis drawn without Nature 
 
 or Art, 
 —Yet the Man would ajt once run away with 
 
 your heart, 
 And I for five centuries right gladly would be 
 Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he. 
 
 Vol. II. M it 
 
134* 
 
 -d? FRAGMENT. 
 
 Between two sister moorland rills 
 
 There is a spot that seems to lie 
 
 Sacred to flow'rets of the. hills,. 
 
 And sacred to the sky. 
 
 And -in .-this -smooth and open dell 
 
 There is a tempest-stricken tree; 
 
 A corner-stone by lightning cut, 
 
 The last stone of a. cottage. hut;. 
 
 And in this^dell you see 
 
 A thing no storm can e'er destroy. 
 
 The shadow of a Danish Boy. 
 
 In clouds above, the lark is heard,. 
 
 He sings his blithest and his best; 
 
 But in this lonesome nook the bird 
 
 Did never build his nest. 
 
 No beast j 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 I 
 
 The lovely dell is all his Own. 
 
135 
 
 A spirit of noon-day is he, 
 
 He seems a Form of flesh and blood; 
 
 A piping Shepherd he might be, 
 
 A Herd-boy of the wood. 
 
 A regal vest of fur he wears, 
 
 In colour like a raven's wing; 
 
 It fears nor rain,, nor wind, nor dew, 
 
 But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue 
 
 As budding pines in Spring ; 
 
 His helmet has a vernal grace,. 
 
 Fresh as the bloom upon his face. 
 
 A harp is from his shoulder slung; 
 He rests the harp upon his knee, 
 And there in a forgotten tongue 
 He warbles melody. 
 Of flocks and herds both far and near 
 He is the darling and the joy, 
 And often, when no cause appears, 
 The mountain ponies prick their ears, 
 They hear the Danish Boy, 
 While in the dell he sits alone 
 Beside the tree and corner stone; 
 
 When near this blasted tree you psss, 
 Two sods are plainly to be seen 
 Close at its root, and each with grass 
 Is cover'd fresh and green- 
 
iU 
 
 Like turf upon a new-rfrade grave 
 These two green sods together Ire, 
 Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind, 
 Can these two sods together bind, 
 Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, 
 But side by side the two are lard, 
 As if just sever'd by the spade. 
 
 There sits he: In his Face you spy- 
 No trace of a ferocious air, 
 Nor ever was a cloudless sky 
 So steady or so fair. 
 The lovely Danish Boy is blest 
 And happy in hrs flowery cove ; 
 From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; 
 And yet he warbles songs of war; 
 They seem like Songs of love, 
 For calm and gentle is his mein j 
 Like a dead Boy he is serene. 
 
13? 
 
 ADFERTISEMENr. 
 
 BY persons resident in the country and attached to 
 rural objects, many places will be found un-named or of un- 
 known names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or 
 Feelings been experienced, which will have given to such pla- 
 ces a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give 
 some sort of Record to such Incidents or renew the gratifi- 
 cation of such Feelings, names have baen given to places by 
 the Author and some of his friends, and the following Poems 
 written in consequence. 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OK THX 
 
 NAMING OF PLACES. 
 
 I. 
 
 IT was an April Morning ; fresh and clear 
 The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, 
 Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice 
 Of waters which the winter had supplied 
 Was soften'd down into a vernal tone. 
 The spirit of enjoyment and desire, 
 And hopes and wishes, from all living things. 
 Went circling, like a multitude of sounds. 
 
m 
 
 The budding groves appear'd as if in hastfr 
 To spur the steps of June ; as if their shades 
 Of various green were hindrances that stood 
 Between them and theif object : Yet, mean 
 
 while, 
 There was such deep contentment in the air 
 That every naked ash, and tardy tree 
 Yet learles, seem'd as though the countenance 
 With which it looked on this delightful day 
 Were native to the summer. — Up the brook 
 
 4 - 
 
 I roam d in the confusion of my heart, 
 Alive to all things and forgetting all. 
 At length I to a sudden turning came 
 In this continuous glen, where down a rock 
 The stream, so ardent in its course before, 
 Sent forth such sallies or 4 glad sound, that all 
 Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice 
 Of common pleasure ; beast and bird, the lamb, 
 The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush 
 Vied with this waterfall, and made a song 
 Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild 
 
 growth 
 
 Or like, some natural produce of the air 
 That could not cease td be. Green leaved* 
 
 were here 
 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, 
 The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, 
 With hanging islands of resplendent furze i 
 And on a summit, distant a short space, 
 
 
139 
 
 By any who should look beyond the dell, 
 A single mountain Cottage might be seen. . 
 I gay 4. jP$i g^z'd, and to myself I said, 
 " Our thoughts at least are ours ; and this wild 
 
 nook, 
 " My Emma, I will dedicate to thee." 
 — Soon did the spot become my other home, 
 My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode, 
 And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, 
 To whom I sometimes in our idle talk 
 Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 
 Years after we are gone and in our graves, 
 When they have cause to speak of this wild 
 p place,, 
 May call it by the name of Emma's Dei,i» 
 
 II. 
 
 TO JOANNA. 
 
 Amid the smoke of cities did you pass 
 Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd, 
 From years of quiet industry, to love 
 The living Beings by your own fire-side, 
 With such a strong devotion, that your heart 
 Is slow towards the sympathies of them 
 Who look upon the hills with tenderness, 
 
140 
 
 And make dear friendships with the streams 
 
 and groves. 
 Yet we who are transgressors in this kind, 
 Dwelling retired in our simplicity 
 Among the woods and fields, we love you well^ 
 Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been 
 So distant from us now for two long years, 
 That you will gladly listen to discourse 
 However trivial, if you thence are taught 
 That they, with whom you once were happy, 
 
 talk * 
 Familiarly of you and of old times. 
 
 While I was seated, now some ten days past, 
 Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop 
 Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple tower, 
 The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by 
 Came forth to greet me, and when he had 
 
 ask'd, 
 ** How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid ! 
 " And when will she return to us ?" he paus'd, 
 And after short exchange of village news, 
 He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, 
 Reviving obsolete Idolatry, 
 I like a Runic Priest, in characters 
 Of formidable size, had chisel'd out 
 Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 
 Above the Rotha, by the forest side. 
 — Now, bv those dear immunities of heart 
 
141 
 
 Engendered betwixt malice and true love, 
 I was not loth to be so catechiz'd, 
 And this was my reply. — —As it befel, 
 One summer morning we had walk'd abroad 
 At break of day, Joanna and myself. 
 'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, 
 Full flower'd, and visible on every steep, 
 Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 
 Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, 
 And when we came in front of that tall rock 
 Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd 
 
 short, 
 And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye 
 From base to summit; such delight I found 
 To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, 
 That intermixture of delicious hues 
 Along so vast a surface, all at once, 
 In one impression, by connecting force 
 Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart. 
 When 1 had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' space, 
 Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld 
 That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud. 
 The rock, like something starting from a sleep, 
 Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again: 
 That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag 
 Was ready v/ith her cavern: Hammar-Scar, 
 And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth 
 A noise of laughter ■ southern Loughrigg heard. 
 And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone : 
 Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky 
 Carried the Lady's voice.— Old Skiddaw blew 
 Vol. II. N 
 
142 
 
 His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds 
 Of Glaramara southward came the voice ; 
 And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head. 
 Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend 
 Who in the hey-day of astonishment 
 Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth 
 A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood 
 Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd 
 With dreams and visionary impulses, 
 Is not for me to tell ; but sure I am 
 That there was a loud uproar in the hills. 
 And, while we both were listening, to my side 
 The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd 
 To shelter from some object of her fear. 
 - — And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen 
 
 moons 
 Were wasted, as I chancM to walk alone 
 Beneath this rock, at sun-rise on a calm 
 And silent morning, I sate down, and there, 
 In memory of affections old and true, 
 I chissePd out in those rude characters 
 Joanna's name upon the living stone. 
 And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side, 
 Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 In Cumberland and Westmoreland are several In- 
 scriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of 
 
 
w$ 
 
 III. 
 
 THERE is an Eminence r — of'these our hill* 
 The last that parleys with the setting sun.. 
 We can behold it from our Orchard-seat, 
 And, when at evening we pursue our walk 
 Along the public way, this Cliff, so higji 
 Above us,- and so distant in its height- 
 Is visible, and often seems to send 
 Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts- 
 The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: 
 The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 
 
 Time, and the rudeness of the workmanship had been mis- 
 taken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman. 
 
 The Rotha, mentioned in this Poem, is-- the River which 
 flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere. and Rydole, falls 
 into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, the impressive single 
 mountain at the head of the vale of Grasmere, is a rock, 
 which from most points of view, bears a striking resemblance 
 to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of 
 those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the 
 country are called Dungeons* The other mountains either 
 immediately surround the vale of Grasmere, or belong to 
 the same clutter. 
 
144 
 
 In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair 
 As when he shines above it. *Tis in truth 
 The loneliest place we have among the clouds. 
 And She who dwells with me, whom I have 
 
 lov'd 
 With such communion, that no place on earth 
 Can ever be a solitude to me, 
 Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my 
 
 Name. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags, 
 A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd 
 Between the water and a winding slope 
 Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore. 
 Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy. 
 And there, myself and two beloved Friends, 
 One calm September morning, ere the mist 
 Had altogether yielded to the sun, 
 Saunter'd on this retir'd, and difficult way. 
 — Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we 
 Play'd with our time ; and as we stroll'd along*. 
 It was our occupation to observe 
 
145 
 
 Such objects as the waves had toss'd ashore, 
 Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither'd bough, 
 Each on the other heap'd along the line 
 Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood, 
 Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft 
 Of dandelion seed or thistle's beard, 
 Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell'd 
 By some internal feeling, skimm'd along 
 Close to the surface of the lake that lay 
 Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on 
 Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there, 
 In all its sportive wanderings all the while 
 Making report of an invisible breeze 
 That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse, 
 Its very playmate, and its moving soul. 
 —And often, trifling with a privilege 
 Alike indulg'd to all, we paus'd, one now, 
 And now the other, to point out, perchance 
 To pluck, some flower or water- weed, too fair, 
 Either to be divided from the place 
 Oh which it grew, or to be left alone 
 To its own beauty. Many such there are, 
 Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant 
 So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named, 
 Plant lovelier in its own retir'd abode 
 On Grasmere's beach, than Naid by the side 
 Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere 
 Sole sitting by the shores of old Romance. 
 — So fared we that sweet morning: from the 
 fields 
 
 Vol. II. N 2 
 
146 
 
 Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth 
 Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls. 
 Delighted much to listen to those sounds, 
 And in the fashion which I have described, 
 Feeding unthinking fancies, we advane'd 
 Along the indented shore; when suddenly, 
 Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw 
 Before us on a point of jutting land 
 The tall and upright figure of a Man 
 Attir'd in Peasant's garb, who stood alone, 
 Angling beside the margin of the lake. 
 That way we turn'd our steps ; nor was it long, 
 Ere making ready comments on the sight 
 Which then we saw, with one and the same 
 
 voice 
 We all cried out, that he must be indeed 
 An idle man, who thus could lose a day 
 Of the mid-harvest, when the labourer's hire 
 Is ample, and some little might be stor'd 
 Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time. 
 Thus talking of that Peasant we approach'd 
 Close to the spot where with his rod and line 
 He stood alone ; whereat he turn'd his head 
 To greet us — and we saw a man worn down 
 By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks 
 And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean, 
 That for my single self 1 look'd at them, 
 Forgetful of the body they sustain'd.- — 
 Too weak to labour in the harvest field, 
 
T47 
 
 The man was using his best skill to gain 
 A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake 
 That knew, not of his wants. I will not say 
 What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how 
 The happy idleness of that sweet morn, 
 With all its lovely images, was chang'd 
 To serious musing and to self-reproach. 
 Nor did we fail to see within ourselves 
 What need there is to be reserv'd in speech^ 
 And temper all our thoughts with Charity. 
 — Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, 
 My Friend, Myself, and She who then re* 
 
 ceiv'd 
 The same admonishment, have call 'd the place 
 By a memorial name, uncouth indeed. 
 As^e'er by mariner was given to bay 
 Or foreland on a new discover'd coast, 
 And Point Rash -judgment is the name 
 
 it bears^ 
 
148 
 
 v: 
 
 To M. R„ 
 
 OUR walk was far among the ancient trees : 
 There was no road, nor any woodman's path, 
 But the thick umbrage cheeking the wild growth 
 Of weed and sapling, on the soft green turf 
 Beneath the branches of itself had made 
 A track which brought us to a slip of lawn, 
 And a small bed of water in the woods. 
 All round this pool both flocks and herds might 
 
 drink 
 On its firm margin, even as from a well 
 Or some stone-bason which the Herdsman's 
 
 hand 
 Had shap'd for their refreshment, nor did sun 
 Or wind from any quarter ever come 
 But as a blessing to this calm recess, 
 This glade of water and this one green field'. 
 The spot was made by Nature for herself: 
 The travellers know it not, and 'twill remain 
 Unknown to them ; but it is beautiful ; 
 And if a man should plant his cottage near, 
 Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, 
 And blend its waters with his daily meal, 
 He would so love it that in his death-hour 
 Its image would survive among his thoughts, 
 And, therefore, my sweet Mary, this still 
 
 Nook 
 With all its beeches we have named from you. 
 
149 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 IF from the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 But, courage ! for beside that boisterous brook 
 The mountains have all open'd out themselves^ 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 No habitation there is seen ; but such 
 Asjourney thither find themselves alone 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and 
 
 kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 It is in truth an utter solitude, 
 Nor should I have made mention of this dell 
 But for one object which you might pass by^. 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 There is a stragling heap of unhewn stones! 
 And to that place a story appertains, 
 
I5<* 
 
 Which,, though it be ungarnish*d with events,. 
 
 Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side, 
 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first, 
 
 The earliest of those tales that spake to me 
 
 Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men 
 
 Whom I already lov'd, not verily 
 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy 
 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 
 Of Nature^ by the gentle agency 
 
 Of natural objects led me on to feel 
 
 For passions that were not my own, and. think 
 
 At random and imperfectly indeed* 
 
 On man ; the heart of man and human life. 
 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts, 
 
 And with yet fonder feeling, for die sake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills 
 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 There dwelr a Shepherd, Michael was his 
 
 name, 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 
151 
 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, 
 Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
 And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds, 
 Of blasts of every tone, and ofrentimes 
 When others heeded not, He heard the South 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills; 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say 
 The winds are now devising work for me ! 
 And truly at all times the storm, that drives 
 The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him 
 Up to the mountains : He had been alone 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists 
 That came to him and left him on the heights. 
 So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd. 
 
 And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 
 That the green Vallies, and the Streams and 
 
 Rocks, 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's 
 
 thoughts. 
 Fields, where with chearful spirits he had 
 
 breath'd 
 The common air; the hills, which he so oft 
 Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had 
 
 imprcss'd 
 
152 
 
 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 sav'd, 
 Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts, 
 So grateful in themselves, the certainty 
 Of honorable gains ; these fields, these hills 
 Which were his living Being, even more 
 Than his own Blood — what could they less ? 
 
 had laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 He had not pass'd his days in singleness. 
 He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life 
 Whose heart was in her house; two wheels 
 
 she had 
 Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, 
 That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest, 
 It was because the other was at work. . 
 The Pair had but one Inmate in their house, 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael telling o'er his years began 
 To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only son, 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a 
 
 storm, 
 
153 
 
 The one of an inestimable worth, 
 Made all their household. I may truly say, 
 That they were as a Proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was gone, 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come home, even 
 
 then 
 Their labour did not cease, unless when all 
 Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, 
 Sate round their basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 
 
 when their meal 
 Was ended, Luke, for so the son was nanVd, 
 And his old Father, both betook themselves 
 To such convenient work, as might employ 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card 
 Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, 
 Or other implement of house or field. 
 
 Down from the cieling by the chimnev's edge, 
 Which in our ancient uncouth country style 
 Did with a huge projection overbrow 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
 Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp ; 
 An aged utensil, which had perform 'd 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 Vol. II. O 
 
154 
 
 Early at evening did it burn and late, 
 Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours 
 Which going by from year to year had found 
 And left the Couple neither gay perhaps 
 Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth 
 
 year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
 Father and Son, while late into the night 
 The House-wife plied her own peculiar work, 
 Making the cottage thro 1 the silent hours 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
 Not with a waste of words, but for the sake 
 Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give 
 To many living now, I of this Lamp 
 Speak thus minutely; for there are no few 
 Whose memories will bear witness to my Tale. 
 The Light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
 And was a. public Symbol of the life, 
 The thrifty Pair had lived. For as it chane'd, 
 Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 Stood single, with large prospect North and 
 
 South, 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise, 
 And Westward to the village near the Lake : 
 And from this constant light so regular 
 And so far seen, the House itself by all 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
 
155 
 
 Both old and young, was nam'd The Even- 
 ing Star. 
 
 Thusliving on through such a length of years, 
 The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs 
 Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's 
 
 heart 
 This Son of his old age was yet more dear — 
 Effect which might perhaps havebeenproduc'd 
 By that instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all ; 
 Or that a child, more than all other gifts, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking 
 
 thoughts, 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature heeds must fail. 
 From such, and other causes, to the thoughts 
 Of the Old Man his only son was now 
 The dearest object that he knew on earth. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him, 
 His Heart and his Heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For dalliance and delight, as is the use 
 Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd 
 To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd 
 His cradle with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 
 Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love, 
 
156 
 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Had work by his own door, or when he sate 
 With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 
 Beneath that large old Oak, which near their 
 
 door 
 Stood, and from its enormous breadth of shade 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,. 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd 
 The Clipping Tree,* a name which yet it 
 
 bears. 
 There whilethey two were sitting in the shade, 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd 
 Upon the child, if he disturb M the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shout* 
 Scar'd them, while they lay stijl beneath the 
 
 shears.. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy 
 
 grew up 
 A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steadv roses that were five years old, 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop-'cl 
 
 ♦Clipping is the word used in the North of 
 England for shearing* 
 
157 
 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipp'd, 
 He, as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd, 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock, 
 And to his office prematurely calPd 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
 Something between a hindrance and a help, 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 
 Receiving from his Father hire of praise. 
 
 While this good Household thus were living 
 
 on 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his Brother's Son, a man 
 Of an industrious life, and ample means, 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now 
 Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half his substance. This unlook'd for 
 
 claim 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 
 Vol. II. 2 
 
153 
 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost* 
 As soon as he had gather'd so much strength 
 That he could look his trouble in the face, 
 It seem'd that his sole refuge was. to sell 
 A portion of his patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought again,, 
 And his heart faiPd him. "Isabel,." said he 
 Two evenings after he had heard the news, 
 "I have been toiling more than seventy years* 
 And in the open sun-shine of God's love 
 Have we all 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 I the Sun itself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I,, 
 And I have liv'd to. be a fool at last 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were false to us ; and if he were not false, 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him — but 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus i 
 When I began, my purpose was to speak 
 Of remedies, and of a chearful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel - y 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 knowesr, 
 
159 
 
 Another Kinsman, he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
 Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go t 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift, 
 He quickly will repair this, loss, and then 
 May come again to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done? Where every one is poor 
 What can be gain'd?" At this, the Old Man 
 
 paus'd, 
 And Isabel sate silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There's Richard Bateman, thought she to her- 
 self, 
 He was a parish-boy — At the church-door 
 They made a Gathering for him, shillings, 
 
 pence, 
 And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbours 
 
 bought 
 A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares, 
 And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad 
 Went up to London, found a Master there, 
 Who out of many chose the trusty Boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandize 
 Beyond the seas , where he grew wond'rous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the poor,. 
 And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd 
 With Marble which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Pass'd quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad, 
 
160 
 
 And thus resum'd. " 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 ceas'd, and to the fields went 
 
 forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five 
 
 days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work ; for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she for the two last nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
 And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at 
 
 noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by them- 
 selves 
 Were sittingat the door, — "Thoumustnot 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." 
 
161 
 
 The Lad made answer. with a jocund voice, 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
 Recovered heart. That evening her best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sate 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 Next morning Isabel resum'd her work, 
 And all the ensuing week the house appear'd 
 As chearful as a grove in Spring: At length 
 The expected letter from their Kinsman came, 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy, 
 To which requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over; Isabel 
 Went forth toshewit to the neighbours round;- 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said, 
 " He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The 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 
 
 Gill, 
 In that deep Valley, Michael had designed 
 
162 
 
 To build a sheep-fold, and, before he heard 
 
 The tidings of his melarieholy loss, 
 
 For this same purpose he had gather'd up 
 
 A heap of stones, which close to the brook 
 
 side 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd ; 
 And soon as they had reach'd the place he 
 
 stopp'd, 
 And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My 
 
 Son! 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me ; with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, * 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 J will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee gt>od 
 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 pass*d on, 
 And still. 1 lov'd thee with encreasing love^ 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 Than when I heard thee by out own fire-side 
 First uttering without words a natural tune, 
 When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
 
163 
 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd 
 
 month, 
 And in the open fields my life was pass'd, 
 And in the mountains, else I think that thou 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. 
 -—But we were playmates-, Luke! Among these 
 
 hills, 
 As well thou know'st, in us the old and young 
 Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou 
 Lack any pleasure which a Boy can know." 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
 He sobb'd ^iloud; the Old Man grasp'd his 
 
 hand, 
 And said, — " Nay, do not take it so — I see 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A kind^and a good Father; and herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 Receiv'd at others hands, for, though now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 Remember them who lov'd me in my youth. 
 Both of them sleep together; here they liv'd 
 As all their Forefathers had done, and when 
 At length their time was come, they were not 
 
 loth 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they 
 
 liv'd. 
 But 'tis a long time to look back my Son, 
 
164 
 
 And see so little gain from sixty years. 
 These fields were burthen'd when they came 
 
 to me; 
 'Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 ItoiPd and toil'd ; God bless'dme in my work, 
 And till these three weeks past the land was 
 
 free. 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another Master, Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 That thou should'st go." At this the Old 
 
 Man paus'd, 
 Then pointing to the stones near which they 
 
 stood, 
 Thus, after a short silence he resum'd : — 
 " This was a work for us, and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own 
 
 hands. 
 1 for the purpose brought thee to this place. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may 
 
 live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and stout; — do thou thy part, 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resign' d to thee ; 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 
165 
 
 All works which I was wont to do alone 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, 
 
 Boy ! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating 
 
 fast 
 With many hopes — it should be so — yes — 
 
 yes — 
 I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke, thou hast been bound to me 
 Only bv links of love, when thou art gone 
 What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
 As I requested, and hereafter, Luke, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, let this Sheep-fold be 
 Thy anchor and thy shield ; amid all fear 
 And all temptation, let it be to thee 
 An emblem of the life thy Fathers liv'd, 
 Who being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds.' Now, fare thee 
 
 well — 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 
 A work which is not here, a Covenant 
 'Twill be between us — but whatever fate 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last, 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave. *jN 
 
 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd 
 down, 
 
 Vol. II. P 
 
166 
 
 And as his Father had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the sheep-fold; at the sight 
 The Old Man's grief broke from him, to his heart 
 He press'd his Son, he kissed him, and wept; 
 And to the House together they return'd. 
 
 Next morning, as had been resolv'd, the Boy- 
 Began his journey, and when he had reach'd 
 The public Way, he put on a bold face; 
 And all the Neighbours as he pass'd their doors 
 Came forth, with wishes and with farewell 
 
 pray'rs, 
 That follow'd him till he was out of sight. 
 
 A good Report did from their Kinsman come, 
 
 Of Luke and his well-doing; and the Boy 
 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wond'rcus news, 
 
 Which, as the Housewife phras'd it, were 
 
 throughout 
 
 The prettiest letters that were ever seen. 
 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
 
 So, many months pass'd on: And once again 
 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 
 With confident andchearful thoughts ; and now 
 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 
 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 
 Wrought at the sheep-fold. Meantime Luke 
 
 beo-an 
 p 
 
1 67 
 
 To slacken in his doty, and at length 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 To evil courses; ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
 Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
 Would break the heart: — Old Michael found 
 
 it SOr 
 
 I have conversed with more than one who well 
 Remember the Old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 
 He went, and stilt look'd up upon the sun, 
 And listen'd to the wind; and as before 
 Perform'd all kinds of labour for his sheep, 
 And for the land his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow Dell from time to time 
 Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need, 'Tis not forgotten yet 
 The pity which was then in every heart 
 For the Old Man— and 'tis believ'd by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he 
 seen 
 
168 
 
 Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
 The length of full seven years from time to time 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel, 
 Survive her Husband: At her death the estate 
 Was sold, and went into a Stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage, which was nam'd the Evening 
 
 Star, 
 Is gone, the ploughshare has been through the 
 
 ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been 
 
 wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood, yet the Oak is left 
 That grew beside their door; and the remains 
 Of the unfinish'd Sheep-fold mav be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green head Gil L 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Note to the Thorn, V. I. p. 95.— This Poem ought to have 
 been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been pre- 
 vented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood 
 when it was probable that I should write it well.— The character 
 which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. 
 The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has 
 ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for ex- 
 ample, who being past the middle age of Ike, had retired upon 
 an annuity, or small independent income, to some village or 
 country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had 
 not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become 
 credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same 
 cause, and other pre-disposing causes by which it is probable 
 that such men may have been affected, they are prone to super- 
 stition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a 
 character like this, to exhibit some of the general laws by which 
 superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost 
 always men of slow faculties and deep feelings, their minds are 
 not loose but adhesive j they have a reasonable share of imagi- 
 nation, by which word I mean the faculty which produces im-. 
 pressive effects out of simple elements j but they are utterly 
 destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surptiso 
 are excited by sudden varieties of situation, and by accumulated 
 imagery. 
 
 It was my wish in this Poem to shew the manner in which 
 such men cleave to the same ideas 5 and to follow the turns of 
 passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which 
 their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain j first, 
 to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet con- 
 sistent with the character that should describe it j secondly, 
 while I adhered to the style in which such persona described, to 
 take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated 
 with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who 
 
170 
 
 are not accustomed to sympathise with men feeling in that 
 manner or using fuch language. It feemcd to me that this 
 might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid 
 Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should 
 in reality move slowly ; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the 
 Metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the 
 Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have 
 the kindness to excuse this note, as I am sensible that 2Q intro- 
 ductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect. 
 
 Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few 
 words closely connected with the Thorn, and many other Po- 
 ems in these. Volumes. There is a numerous chss of readers 
 who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without 
 tautology: This is a great error: YUi-.i-i tsufotrgy is such 
 ofcener produced by ueing different words when the meaning ia 
 c xactly the same,. Words, a Poet's words more partkuiariyy 
 otight to be weighed in the balance of feeling, and not measured 
 by: the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader 
 cannot be too often reminded, that Poetry is Passion j it is the 
 Jiistory or Science of Feelings. "New every man must know, 
 that S£ ?:t£EBpt is rarely made to communicate impassion- 
 ed feelings, without something of an accompanying consci- 
 ousness of the inadequatfcfiess of cur own powers, or the de« 
 ficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving 
 -to the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied, the Speaker will cling 
 to the same word* or words of the same character. There are 
 also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology 
 are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of 
 these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, 
 not only as symbols of the passion, but as tbiit^ active and effi- 
 cient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further^ 
 from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind 
 luxuriates in the repetition of words, which appear successfully 
 to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might 
 be shewn by innumerable passages from the Bibie> aftd from ths 
 iinpessioaed Poetry of every nation* 
 
171 
 
 " Awake, awake Deborah: awake, »v,-ake, utter a song: 
 Arise Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou son of Abi- 
 noam. 
 
 " At her feet he bowed, he fell, h-2 lay down : at her feet, he 
 .bowedj he feilj where he bowed, there he fell down dead. 
 
 Why Is his Chariot so long in coming ? Why tarry the 
 Wheels of his Chariot?"— Judges, Chap. 5th. Verses 12th 
 27th, and part of the 28th — See also the whole of that tumultu- 
 ous and wonderful Poem. 
 
 Note to the Ancient Mariner, V. I. p. 13.— I cannot 
 refuse myself the gratification of informing such Readers as may 
 have been pleased with this Poem, or with any part of it, that 
 they owe their pleasure in some sort to me j as the Author was 
 himself very desirous that it should be suppressed* This wish 
 had arisen from a consciousness of the defects of the Poem, 
 and from a knowledge that many persons had been much dis- 
 pleased with it. The Poem of my friend has indeed great de- 
 fects \ first, that the principal person has no distinct character, 
 either in his profession of Mariner, or as a human being who^ 
 having been long under the controul of supernatural impressions, 
 might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatu- 
 ral; secondly, that he does not act, but is continually acted 
 upon ; thirdly, that the events having no necessary connection, 
 do not produce each other; and lastly, that the imagery is some- 
 what too laboriously accumulated. Yet the Poem centains ma- 
 ny delicate touches of passion, and indeed, the passion is every- 
 where true to Nature; a great number of the stanzas present 
 beautiful images, and are expressed with unusual felicity of lan- 
 guage ; and the versification, though the Metre is itself unfit 
 for long poems, is harmonious and artfully varied, exhibiting 
 the utmost powers of that Metre, and every variety of which it is 
 capable. It therefore appeared to mc, that these several merits 
 (the first of which, namely that of the passion, is of the highest 
 kind) gave to the Poem a value which is not often possessed by 
 better Poems. On this account I requested of my friend ta 
 permit me to republish it* 
 
172 
 
 Note to the Poem on Revisiting the Wye, V. I. p. 
 K3.— I have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode; but it was 
 written with a hope that in the transitions, and the i npassioned 
 music of the versification would be found the principal requisites 
 of that species of composition. 
 
 Notes to the Poem of the Brothers. v ol. ii. 
 
 Note i. Page 25, line 15. " There were two Springs that 
 bubbled side by side." The impressive circumftance here descri- 
 bed actually took place some years ago in this country, upon an 
 eminence called Kidstow Pike, one of the highest of the moun- 
 tains that surround Hawes-water. The summit of the Pike 
 was stricken by lightning, and every trace of one of the foun- 
 tains disappeared while the other continued to flow as before. 
 
 Note 2. Page 27, line 11. " The thought of death sits easy 
 on the man," &c. There is not any thing more worthy of re- 
 mark in the manners of the inhabitants of these mountains, 
 than the tranquillity, I might say indifference, with which they 
 think and talk upon the subject of Death. Some of the coun- 
 try church yards, as here described, do not contain a single 
 tombstone, and most of them have a very small number. 
 
 Notes to the Poem of Michael. 
 
 Note j. Page 159, line 12. fl There's Richard Bateman," 
 &c. The Story alluded to here is well known in the country. 
 The Chapel is called Ings Chapel ; and is on the right hand 
 sjde of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside. 
 
 Note 2. Page 162, line 1. "5 had design'd to 
 
 build a Sheep-fold," &c. It may be proper to inform some rea- 
 ders, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed build- 
 ing of stone walls with different divisions. It is generally pla- 
 ced by the side of a brook for the convenience of washing the 
 sheep ; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place 
 to drive them into, to enable die shepherds conveniently to sin- 
 gle out one or more for any particular. purpose 
 
RECENT English writer notices the extreme rarity of the" 
 volume of " Lyrical Ballads and other Poems," which Words- 
 h published in 1796, and which marked the new departure in . 
 ish poetry. As we suppose everybody knows, the whole is* 
 y Wordsworth; Coleridge's " Ancient Mariner," his " Gene-^ 
 }," (under the name "Love,") and three of his less notable 
 is are included in the volume. We never have seen any no-, 
 i)f the fact that in 1802 a reprint of the collection appeared in j 
 Mielphia, being published by James Humphreys, " at the N.l 
 orner of Walnut and Dock streets." The manner in which > 
 Humphreys speaks of the poems in his "Advertisement" 
 s to show that the undertaking was more than a commercial 
 llation in his estimation. He says he had begun to reprint 
 ollection after the second volume appeared in 1801, but that 
 ale of the work in London had been so rapid that a second 
 Id had already appeared, containing the famous "Preface" 
 ti Wordsworth meant as the manifesto of the new school of 
 y. This second edition also contained " the beautiful Ode 
 >ve, and some additional explanatory notes," but it did not 
 . Mr. Humphreys' type. For this reason his edition follows 
 I first volume the arrangement of the first London edition, 
 •etains the poem entitled " The Convict," which Wordsworth 
 ted from the second. But he arranges the table of " Con- ( 
 " as it stands in the second London edition. This procedure I 
 node of speech indicate an unexpected interest in the con- ; 
 of the work, and shows that Mr. Humphreys was not a. mere/ 
 sman, who manufactured books with no ideas of what wast 
 
 ?he first edition of the " Ancient Mariner" differs from the 
 in an affectation of archaism in spelling, which did not com- 
 . itself to Coleridge's maturer judgment. It also contains a 
 lumber of various readings, of which the most notable is the 
 ome stanza in the third part : 
 
 A gust of wind sterte up behind 
 
 And whistled through his bones ; 
 Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth 
 
 Half whistles and half groans. 
 
 ^here are no marginal notes, and the long motto from Thos. 
 et's " Archseologia " Latin has not yet been inserted.