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' childIt 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 stoneWith lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrownWith lichens to the very top,And hung with heavy tufts of moss,A melancholy crop:Up from the earth these mosses creep,And this poor thorn! they clasp it roundSo close, you'd say that they were bentWith plain and manifest intent,To drag it to the ground;And all had join'd in one endeavourTo bury this poor thorn for ever.
High on a mountain's highest ridge,Where oft the stormy winter galeCuts like a scythe, while through the cloudsIt 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 pondOf water, never dry;I've measured it from side to side:'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
And close beside this aged thorn,There is a fresh and lovely sight,A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,Just half a foot in height.All lovely colours there you see,All colours that were ever seen,And mossy network too is there,As if by hand of lady fairThe 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 sizeAs like as like can be:But never, never any where,An infant's grave was half so fair.
Now would you see this aged thorn,This pond and beauteous hill of moss,You must take care and chuse your timeThe mountain when to cross.For oft there sits, between the heapThat's like an infant's grave in sizeAnd 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!"
At all times of the day and nightThis wretched woman thither goes,And she is known to every star,And every wind that blows;And there beside the thorn she sitsWhen the blue day-light's in the skies,And when the whirlwind's on the hill,Or frosty air is keen and still,And to herself she cries,"Oh misery! oh misery!Oh woe is me! oh misery;"
"Now wherefore thus, by day and night,In rain, in tempest, and in snowThus to the dreary mountain-topDoes this poor woman go?And why sits she beside the thornWhen 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 whyDoes 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 dareApproach 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?"Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain,I'll tell you every thing I know;But to the thorn and to the pondWhich is a little step beyond,I wish that you would go:Perhaps when you are at the placeYou something of her tale may trace.
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 willHer company to Stephen Hill;And she was blithe and gay,And she was happy, happy stillWhene'er she thought of Stephen Hill.
And they had fix'd the wedding-day,The morning that must wed them both;But Stephen to another maidHad sworn another oath;And with this other maid to churchUnthinking Stephen went—Poor Martha! on that woful dayA 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.
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 sadFrom her exceeding pain.Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather,That he had died, that cruel father!
Sad case for such a brain to holdCommunion with a stirring child!Sad case, as you may think, for oneWho had a brain so wild!Last Christmas when we talked of this,Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,That in her womb the infant wroughtAbout its mother's heart, and broughtHer senses back again:And when at last her time drew near,Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
No more I know, I wish I did,And I would tell it all to you;For what became of this poor childThere's none that ever knew:And if a child was born or no,There's no one that could ever tellAnd if 'twas born alive or dead,There's no one knows, as I have said,But some remember well,That Martha Ray about this timeWould up the mountain often climb.
And all that winter, when at nightThe wind blew from the mountain-peak,'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,The church-yard path to seek:For many a time and oft were heardCries 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.
But that she goes to this old thorn,The thorn which I've described to you,And there sits in a scarlet cloak,I will be sworn is true.For one day with my telescope,To view the ocean wide and bright,When to this country first I came,Ere I had heard of Martha's name,I climbed the mountain's height:A storm came on, and I could seeNo object higher than my knee.
'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,No screen, no fence could I discover,And then the wind! in faith, it wasA wind full ten times over.Hooked around, I thought I sawA 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 foundA woman seated on the ground.
I did not speak—I saw her face,In truth it was enough for me;I turned about and heard her cry,"O misery! O misery!"And there she sits, until the moonThrough half the clear blue sky will go,And when the little breezes makeThe waters of the pond to shake,As all the country knowShe shudders, and you hear her cry,"Oh misery! oh misery!"
"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 comesThe little pond to stir?"I cannot tell; but some will sayShe hanged her baby on the tree,Some say she drowned it in the pond,Which is a little step beyond,But all and each agree,The little babe was buried there,Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
I've heard, the moss is spotted redWith drops of that poor infant's blood;But kill a new-born infant thus!I do not think she could.Some say, if to the pond you go,And fix on it a steady view,The shadow of a babe you trace,A baby and a baby's face,And that it looks at you;Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plainThe baby looks at you again.
And some had sworn an oath that sheShould be to public justice brought;And for the little infant's bonesWith spades they would have sought.But then the beauteous bill of mossBefore their eyes began to stir;And for full fifty yards around,The grass it shook upon the ground;But all do still averThe little babe is buried there.Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
I cannot tell how this may be,But plain it is, the thorn is boundWith heavy tufts of moss, that striveTo 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!"
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 curlThat cluster'd round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair,—Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?""How many? seven in all," she said,And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they, I pray you tell?"She answered, "Seven are we,And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea."
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,My sister and my brother,And in the church-yard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet you are seven; I pray you tellSweet Maid, how this may be?"
Then did the little Maid reply,"Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the church-yard lie,Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the church-yard laid,Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"The little Maid replied,"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side."
"My stockings there I often knit,My 'kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit—I sit and sing to them."
"And often after sunset, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there."
"The first that died was little Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain,And then she went away."
"So in the church-yard she was laid,And all the summer dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I."
"And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side."
"How many are you then," said I,"If they two are in Heaven?"The little Maiden did reply,"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!"'Twas throwing words away; for stillThe little Maid would have her will,And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
ANECDOTE for FATHERS,Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.
I have a boy of five years old,His face is fair and fresh to see;His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,And dearly he loves me.
One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,Our quiet house all full in view,And held such intermitted talkAs we are wont to do.
My thoughts on former pleasures ran;I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,My pleasant home, when Spring began,A long, long year before.
A day it was when I could bearTo 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 slimAnd graceful in his rustic dress!And oftentimes I talked to himIn very idleness.
The young lambs ran a pretty race;The morning sun shone bright and warm;"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,And so is Liswyn farm."
"My little boy, which like you more,"I said and took him by the arm—"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,Or here at Liswyn farm?"
"And tell me, had you rather be,"I said and held-him by the arm,"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,Or here at Liswyn farm?"
In careless mood he looked at me,While still I held him by the arm,And said, "At Kilve I'd rather beThan here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so;My little Edward, tell me why;""I cannot tell, I do not know.""Why this is strange," said I.
"For, here are woods and green hills warm:There surely must some reason beWhy you would change sweet Liswyn farm,For Kilve by the green sea."
At this, my boy hung down his head,He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;And five times to the child I said,"Why, Edward, tell me, why?"
His head he raised—there was in sight,It caught his eye, he saw it plain—Upon the house-top, glittering bright,A broad and gilded vane.
Then did the boy his tongue unlock,And thus to me he made reply;"At Kilve there was no weather-cock,And that's the reason why."
Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heartFor better lore would seldom yearnCould I but teach the hundredth partOf what from thee I learn.
LINESWritten at a small distance from my House, and sent bymy 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 larchThat stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,Which seems a sense of joy to yieldTo the bare trees, and mountains bare,And grass in the green field.
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)Now that our morning meal is done,Make haste, your morning task resign;Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you, and pray,Put on with speed your woodland dress,And bring no book, for this one dayWe'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulateOur living Calendar:We from to-day, my friend, will dateThe opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth,From heart to heart is stealing,From earth to man, from man to earth,—It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us moreThan fifty years of reason;Our minds shall drink at every poreThe spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts may make,Which they shall long obey;We for the year to come may takeOur temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rollsAbout, below, above;We'll frame the measure of our souls,They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister I come, I pray,With speed put on your woodland dress,And bring no book; for this one dayWe'll give to idleness.
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,(The Woman thus her artless story told)One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring floodSupplied, to him were more than mines of gold.Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shoreMy father's nets, or from the mountain foldSaw on the distant lake his twinkling oarOr watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more
My father was a good and pious man,An honest man by honest parents bred,And I believe that, soon as I beganTo lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,And in his hearing there my prayers I said:And afterwards, by my good father taught,I read, and loved the books in which I read;For books in every neighbouring house I sought,And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.
Can I forget what charms did once adornMy garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.
The staff I yet remember which upboreThe bending body of my active sire;His seat beneath the honeyed sycamoreWhen the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;When market-morning came, the neat attireWith which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.
The suns of twenty summers danced along,—Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:Then rose a stately hall our woods among,And cottage after cottage owned its sway.No joy to see a neighbouring house, or strayThrough pastures not his own, the master took;My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;He loved his old hereditary nook,And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.
But when he had refused the proffered gold,To cruel injuries he became a prey,Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:His troubles grew upon him day by day,Till all his substance fell into decay.His little range of water was denied; [3]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.
[Footnote 3: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.]
Can I forget that miserable hour,When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,Peering above the trees, the steeple towerThat on his marriage-day sweet music made?Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,Close by my mother in their native bowers:Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,—I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers,Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!
There was a youth whom I had loved so long.That when I loved him not I cannot say.'Mid the green mountains many and many a songWe two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.When we began to tire of childish playWe seemed still more and more to prize each other;We talked of marriage and our marriage day;And I in truth did love him like a brother,For never could I hope to meet with such another.
His father said, that to a distant townHe must repair, to ply the artist's trade.What tears of bitter grief till then unknown?What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!To him we turned:—we had no other aid.Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,And her whom he had loved in joy, he saidHe 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 diedWhen sad distress reduced the childrens' meal:Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hideThe 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 drumBeat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.My husband's arms now only served to strainMe and his children hungering in his view:In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:To join those miserable men he flew;And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.
There foul neglect for months and months we bore,Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.Green fields before us and our native shore,By fever, from polluted air incurred,Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd,That happier days we never more must view:The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew.
But from delay the summer calms were past.On as we drove, the equinoctial deepRan mountains-high before the howling blast.We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleepOf 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 readied the western world, a poor, devoted crew.
Oh I dreadful price of being to resignAll that is dearinbeing! better farIn Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,Better our dying bodies to obtrude,Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,Protract a curst existence, with the broodThat lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.
The pains and plagues that on our heads came down;Disease and famine, agony and fear,In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.All perished—all, in one remorseless year,Husband and children! one by one, by swordAnd ravenous plague, all perished: every tearDried up, despairing, desolate, on boardA British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.
Peaceful as some immeasurable plainBy 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:The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps!The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!The shriek that from the distant battle broke!The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid hostDriven by the bomb's incessant thunder-strokeTo 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 RapeSeized 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 mastThe impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd,And whistling, called the wind that hardly curledThe silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,And from all hope I was forever hurled.For me—farthest from earthly port to roamWas best, could I but shun the spot where man mightcome.
And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thoughtAt 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 desert rock;Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cockFrom the cross timber of an out-house hung;How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock!At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.
So passed another day, and so the third:Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd,Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort:There, pains which nature could no more support,With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;Dizzy my brain, with interruption shortOf hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.
Recovery came with food: but still, my brainWas weak, nor of the past had memory.I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complainOf many things which never troubled me;Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,Of looks where common kindness had no part.Of service done with careless cruelty,Fretting the fever round the languid heart,And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.
These things just served to stir the torpid sense,Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.Memory, though slow, returned with strength: and thenceDismissed, again on open day I gazed,At houses, men, and common light, amazed.The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired,Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.
My heart is touched to think that men like these,The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!And their long holiday that feared not grief,For all belonged to all, and each was chief.No plough their sinews strained; on grating roadNo wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheafIn every vale for their delight was stowed:For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed,
Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they madeOf 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 moorIn barn uplighted, and companions boonWell met from far with revelry secure,In depth of forest glade, when jocund JuneRolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.
But ill it suited me, in journey darkO'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 bestSmall 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 sitWhole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
I lived upon the mercy of the fieldsAnd oft of cruelty the sky accused;On hazard, or what general bounty yields.Now coldly given, now utterly refused,The fields I for my bed have often used:But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruthIs, that I have my inner self abused,Foregone the home delight of constant truth,And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,In tears, the sun towards that country tendWhere my poor heart lost all its fortitude:And now across this moor my steps I bend—Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friendHave I.—She ceased, and weeping turned away,As if because her tale was at an endShe wept;—because she had no more to sayOf that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.
And this place our forefathers made for man!This is the process of our love and wisdomTo 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 upBy ignorance and parching poverty,His energies roll back upon his heart,And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot.Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks—And this is their best cure! uncomforted.
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears.And savage faces, at the clanking hour,Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he liesCircled with evil, till his very soulUnmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformedBy 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 sheets,Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,Till he relent, and can no more endureTo 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 harmonizedBy the benignant touch of love and beauty.
SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN,With an incident in which he was concerned.
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I've heard he once was tall.Of years he has upon his back,No doubt, a burthen weighty;He says he is three score and ten,But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,That's fair behind, and fair before;Yet, meet him where you will, you seeAt once that he is poor.Full five and twenty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And, though he has but one eye left,His cheek is like a cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,And no man was so full of glee;To say the least, four counties round.Had heard of Simon Lee;His master's dead, and no one nowDwells in the hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.
His hunting feats have him bereftOf his right eye, as you may see:And then, what limbs those feats have leftTo poor old Simon Lee!He has no son, he has no child,His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.
And he is lean and he is sick,His dwindled body's half awry,His ancles they are swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.When he was young he little knew'Of husbandry or tillage;And now he's forced to work, though weak,—The weakest in the village.
He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the race was done,He reeled and was stone-blind.And still there's something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming bounds 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 skillFrom labour could not wean them,Alas! 'tis very little, allWhich 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 theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed 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 moreHis poor old ancles swell.My gentle reader, I perceiveHow patiently you've waited,And I'm afraid that you expectSome tale will be related.
O reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle reader! you would findA tale in every thing.What more I have to say is short,I hope you'll kindly take it;It is no tale; but should you think,Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old man doing all he couldAbout the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter'd in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have worked for ever.
"You've overtasked, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool" to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer'd aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever'd,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seemed to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returning.Alas! the gratitude of menHas oftner left me mourning.
LINESWritten in early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,While in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it griev'd my heart to thinkWhat man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes;And 'tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:Their thoughts I cannot measure,But the least motion which they made,It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,To catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent,If such be of my creed the plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat man has made of man?
The NIGHTINGALE.Written in April, 1798.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf 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 silentlyO'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song"Most musical, most melancholy" [4] Bird!A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!In nature there is nothing melancholy.—But some night wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'dWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper or neglected love,(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himselfAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrows) he and such as heFirst named these notes a melancholy strain:And many a poet echoes the conceit;Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
[Footnote 4: "Most musical, most melancholy." This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore adramaticpropriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.]
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbsBeside a 'brook in mossy forest-dellBy sun or moonlight, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in nature's immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all nature lovelier, and itselfBe lov'd, like nature!—But 'twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poeticalWho lose the deep'ning twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature's sweet voices always full of loveAnd joyance! Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful, that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHi? love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music! And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle hugeWhich the great lord inhabits not: and soThis 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 knewSo many Nightingales: and far and nearIn wood and thicket over the wide groveThey answer and provoke each other's songs—With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jugAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all—Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day!
A most gentle maidWho dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the Castle, and at latest eve,(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicateTo something more than nature in the grove)Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence: till the MoonEmerging, hath awaken'd earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful BirdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,At if one quick and sudden Gale had sweptAn hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'dMany a Nightingale perch giddilyOn blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton song,Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!We have been loitering long and pleasantly,And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!Full fain it would delay me!-My dear Babe,Who, capable of no articulate sound,Mars all things with his imitative lisp,How he would place his hand beside his ear,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature's playmate. He knows wellThe evening star: and once when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad 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 onceSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tearsDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—It is a father's tale. But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate Joy! Once more farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
LINESWritten when sailing in a Boat At EVENING.
How rich the wave, in front, imprestWith evening twilights summer hues,While, facing thus the crimson west,The boat her silent path pursues!And see how dark the backward stream!A little moment past, so smiling!And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,Some other loiterer beguiling.
Such views the youthful bard allure,But, heedless of the following gloom,He deems their colours shall endure'Till peace go with him to the tomb.—And let him nurse his fond deceit,And what if he must die in sorrow!Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
LINESWritten near Richmond upon the Thames.
Glide gently, thus for ever glide,O Thames! that other bards may see,As lovely visions by thy sideAs now, fair river! come to me.Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,'Till all our minds for ever flow,As thy deep waters now are flowing.
Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,That in thy waters may be seenThe image of a poet's heart,How bright, how solemn, how serene!Such as did once the poet bless,Who, pouring here alaterditty,Could find no refuge from distress,But in the milder grief of pity.
Remembrance! as we float along,For him suspend the dashing oar,And pray that never child of SongMay know his freezing sorrows more.How calm! how still! the only sound,The dripping of the oar suspended!—The evening darkness gathers roundBy virtue's holiest powers attended. [5]
[Footnote 5: Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written,I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time.This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.]
The IDIOT BOY.
'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night,The moon is up—the sky is blue,The owlet in the moonlight air,He shouts from nobody knows where;He lengthens out his lonely shout,Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!
—Why bustle thus about your door,What means this bustle, Betty Foy?Why are you in this mighty fret?And why on horseback have you setHim whom you love, your idiot boy?
Beneath the moon that shines so bright,Till she is tired, let Betty FoyWith girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;But wherefore set upon a saddleHim whom she loves, her idiot boy?
There's scarce a soul that's out of bed;Good Betty put him down again;His lips with joy they burr at you,But, Betty! what has he to doWith stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
The world will say 'tis very idle,Bethink you of the time of night;There's not a mother, no not one,But when she hears what you have done,Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.
But Betty's bent on her intent,For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,Old Susan, she who dwells alone,Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,As if her very life would fail.
There's not a house within a mile,No hand to help them in distress;Old Susan lies a bed in pain,And sorely puzzled are the twain,For what she ails they cannot guess.
And Betty's husband's at the wood,Where by the week he doth abide,A woodman in the distant vale;There's none to help poor Susan Gale,What must be done? what will betide?
And Betty from the lane has fetchedHer pony, that is mild and good,Whether he be in joy or pain,Feeding at will along the lane,Or bringing faggots from the wood.
And he is all in travelling trim,And by the moonlight, Betty FoyHas up upon the saddle set,The like was never heard of yet,Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
And he must post without delayAcross 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 nowHe shakes the green bough in his hand.
And Betty o'er and o'er has toldThe boy who is her best delight,Both what to follow, what to shun,What do, and what to leave undone,How turn to left, and how to right.
And Betty's most especial charge,Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that youCome home again, nor stop at all,Come home again, whate'er befal,My Johnny do, I pray you do."
To this did Johnny answer make,Both with his head, and with his hand,And proudly shook the bridle too,And then! his words were not a few,Which Betty well could understand.
And now that Johnny is just going,Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,She gently pats the pony's side,On which her idiot boy must ride,And seems no longer in a hurry.
But when the pony moved his legs,Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!For joy he cannot hold the bridle,For joy his head and heels are idle,He's idle all for very joy.
And while the pony moves his legs,In Johnny's left hand you may see,The green bough's motionless and dead:The moon that shines above his headIs not more still and mute than he.
His heart it was so full of glee,That till full fifty yards were gone,He quite forgot his holly whip,And all his skill in horsemanship,Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
And Betty's standing at the door,And Betty's face with joy o'erflows,Proud of herself, and proud of him,She sees him in his travelling trim;How quietly her Johnny goes.
The silence of her idiot boy,What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!He's at the guide-post—he turns right,She watches till he's out of sight,And Betty will not then depart.
Burr, burr—now Johnny's lips they burr,As loud as any mill, or near it,Meek as a lamb the pony moves,And Johnny makes the noise he loves,And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
Away she hies to Susan Gale:And Johnny's in a merry tune,The owlets hoot, the owlets purr,And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,And on he goes beneath the moon.
His steed and he right well agree,For of this pony there's a rumour,That should he lose his eyes and ears,And should he live a thousand years,He never will be out of humour.
But then he is a horse that thinks!And when he thinks his pace is slack;Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,Yet for his life he cannot tellWhat 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 plateShe sits, as if in Susan's fateHer life and soul were buried.
But Betty, poor good woman! she,You plainly in her face may read it,Could lend out of that moment's storeFive years of happiness or more,To any that might need it.
But yet I guess that now and thenWith Betty all was not so well,And to the road she turns her ears,And thence full many a sound she hears,Which she to Susan will not tell.
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,"As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;They'll both be here, 'tis almost ten,They'll both be here before eleven."
Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,The clock gives warning for eleven;'Tis on the stroke—"If Johnny's near,"Quoth Betty "he will soon be here,As sure as there's a moon in heaven."
The clock is on the stroke of twelve,And Johnny is not yet in sight,The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,But Betty is not quite at ease;And Susan has a dreadful night.
And Betty, half an hour ago,On Johnny vile reflections cast:"A little idle sauntering thing!"With other names, an endless string.But now that time is gone and past.
And Betty's drooping at the heart.That happy time all past and gone,"How can it be he is so late?The Doctor he has made him wait,Susan! they'll both be here anon."
And Susan's growing worse and worse,And Betty's in a sad quandary;And then there's nobody to sayIf 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 guideAppear along the moonlight road,There's neither horse nor man abroad,And Betty's still at Susan's side.
And Susan she begins to fearOf sad mischances not a few,That Johnny may perhaps be drown'd,Or lost perhaps, and never found;Which they must both for ever rue.
She prefaced half a hint of thisWith, "God forbid it should be true!"At the first word that Susan saidCried Betty, rising from the bed,"Susan, I'd gladly stay with you."
"I must be gone, I must away,Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;Susan, we must take care of him,If he is hurt in life or limb"—"Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.
"What can I do?" says Betty, going,"What can I do to ease your pain?Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;I fear you're in a dreadful way,But I shall soon be back again."
"Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!There's nothing that can ease my pain."Then off she hies, but with a prayerThat God poor Susan's life would spare,Till she comes back again.
So, through the moonlight lane she goes,And far into the moonlight dale;And how she ran, and how she walked,And all that to herself she talked,Would surely be a tedious tale.
In high and low, above, below,In great and small, in round and square,In tree and tower was Johnny seen,In bush and brake, in black and green,'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.
She's past the bridge that's in the dale,And now the thought torments her sore,Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,To hunt the moon that's in the brook,And never will be heard of more.
And now she's high upon the down,Alone amid a prospect wide;There's neither Johnny nor his horse,Among the fern or in the gorse;There's neither doctor nor his guide.
"Oh saints! what is become of him?Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,Where he will stay till he is dead;Or sadly he has been misled,And joined the wandering gypsey-folk."
"Or him that wicked pony's carriedTo the dark cave, the goblins' hall,Or in the castle he's pursuing,Among the ghosts, his own undoing;Or playing with the waterfall,"
At poor old Susan then she railed,While to the town she posts away;"If Susan had not been so ill,Alas! I should have had him still,My Johnny, till my dying day."
Poor Betty! in this sad distemper,The doctor's self would hardly spare,Unworthy things she talked and wild,Even he, of cattle the most mild,The pony had his share.
And now she's got into the town,And to the doctor's door she hies;'Tis silence all on every side;The town so long, the town so wide,Is silent as the skies.
And now she's at the doctor's door,She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap,The doctor at the casement shews,His glimmering eyes that peep and doze;And one hand rubs his old night-cap.
"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?""I'm here, what is't you want with me?""Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,And I have lost my poor dear boy,You know him—him you often see;"
"He's not so wise as some folks be,""The devil take his wisdom!" saidThe Doctor, looking somewhat grim,"What, woman! should I know of him?"And, grumbling, he went back to bed.
"O woe is me! O woe is me!Here will I die; here will I die;I thought to find my Johnny here,But he is neither far nor near,Oh! what a wretched mother I!"
She stops, she stands, she looks about,Which way to turn she cannot tell.Poor Betty! it would ease her painIf she had heart to knock again;—The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies,No wonder if her senses fail,This piteous news so much it shock'd her,She quite forgot to send the Doctor,To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down,And she can see a mile of road,"Oh cruel! I'm almost three-score;Such night as this was ne'er before,There's not a single soul abroad."
She listens, but she cannot hearThe 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 nightAre shouting to each other still:Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob,They lengthen out the tremulous sob,That echoes far from hill to hill.
Poor Betty now has lost all hope,Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin;A green-grown pond she just has pass'd,And from the brink she hurries fast,Lest she should drown herself therein.
And now she sits her down and weeps;Such tears she never shed before;"Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy!Oh carry back my idiot boy!And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."
A thought it come into her head;"The pony he is mild and good,And we have always used him well;Perhaps he's gone along the dell,And carried Johnny to the wood."
Then up she springs as if on wings;She thinks no more of deadly sin;If Betty fifty ponds should see,The last of all her thoughts would be,To drown herself therein.
Oh reader! now that I might tellWhat Johnny and his horse are doing!What they've been doing all this time,Oh could I put it into rhyme,A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!He with his pony now doth roamThe 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 horse-man ghost,He travels on along the vale.
And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep,A fierce and dreadful hunter he!Yon valley, that's so trim and green,In five months' time, should he be seen,A desart wilderness will be.
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,And like the very soul of evil,He's galloping away, away,And so he'll gallop on for aye,The bane of all that dread the devil.
I to the muses have been boundThese fourteen years, by strong indentures:Oh gentle muses! let me tellBut half of what to him befel,For sure he met with strange adventures.
Oh gentle muses! is this kindWhy will ye thus my suit repel?Why of your further aid bereave me?And can ye thus unfriended leave me?Ye muses! whom I love so well.
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,Which thunders down with headlong force,Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,As careless as if nothing were,Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse, that's feeding free,He seems, I think, the rein to give;Of moon or stars he takes no heed;Of such we in romances read,—Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that's the very pony too.Where is she, where is Betty Foy?She hardly can sustain her fears;The roaring water-fall she hears,And cannot find her idiot boy.
Your pony's worth his weight in gold,Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!She's coming from among the trees,And now all full in view she seesHim whom she loves, her idiot boy.
And Betty sees the pony too:Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,'Tis he whom you so long have lost,He whom you love, your idiot boy.
She looks again-her arms are up—She screams—she cannot move for joy;She darts as with a torrent's force,She almost has o'erturned the horse,And fast she holds her idiot boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,Whether in cunning or in joy,I cannot tell; but while he laughs,Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,To hear again her idiot boy.
And now she's at the pony's tail,And now she's at the pony's head,On that side now, and now on this,And almost stifled with her bliss,A few sad tears does Betty shed.
She kisses o'er and o'er again,Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,She's happy here, she's happy there.She is uneasy every where;Her limbs are all alive with joy.