She dwelt among th' untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love.
A Violet by a mossy stoneHalf-hidden from the Eye!—Fair, as a star when only oneIs shining in the sky!
Sheliv'dunknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceas'd to be;But she is in her Grave, and Oh!The difference to me.
A slumber did my spirit seal,I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no forceShe neither hears nor seesRoll'd round in earth's diurnal courseWith rocks and stones and trees!
The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE.
"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,Nor dare to thrust thy foolish selfBetween me and my choice!"A falling Water swoln with snowsThus 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 rockTo which thy fibres cling."The Flood was tyrannous and strong;The patient Briar suffer'd long,Nor did he utter groan or sigh,Hoping the danger would be pass'd:But seeing no relief, at lastHe venture'd to reply.
"Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!Why should we dwell in strife?We who in this, our natal spot,Once 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 dayMy leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;Nor was it common gratitudeThat did your cares repay."
When Spring came on with bud and bell,Among these rocks did IBefore you hang my wreath to tellThat gentle days were nigh!And in the sultry summer hoursI shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;And in my leaves now shed and goneThe linnet lodg'd and for us twoChaunted his pretty songs when youHad little voice or none.
But now proud thoughts are in your breast—What grief is mine you see.Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blestTogether 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 wayWould deck you many a Winter's day,A happy Eglantine!
What more he said, I cannot tell.The stream came thundering down the dellAnd 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.
The OAK and the BROOM,
His simple truths did Andrew gleanBeside the babbling rills;A careful student he had beenAmong the woods and hills.One winter's night when through the TreesThe wind was thundering, on his kneesHis youngest born did Andrew hold:And while the rest, a ruddy quireWere seated round their blazing fire,This Tale the Shepherd told.
I saw a crag, a lofty stoneAs ever tempest beat!Out of its head an Oak had grown,A Broom out of its feet.The time was March, a chearful noon—The thaw-wind with the breath of JuneBreath'd gently from the warm South-west;When in a voice sedate with ageThis Oak, half giant and half sage,His neighbour thus address'd.
"Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay,Along this mountain's edgeThe Frost hath wrought both night and day,Wedge driving after wedge.Look up, and think, above your headWhat trouble surely will be bred;Last night I heard a crash—'tis true,The splinters took another road—I see them yonder—what a loadFor such a Thing as you!"
You are preparing as beforeTo deck your slender shape;And yet, just three years back—no more—You had a strange escape.Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,It came, you know, with fire and smokeAnd hither did it bend its way.This pond'rous block was caught by me,And o'er your head, as you may see,'Tis hanging to this day.
The Thing had better been asleep,Whatever thing it were,Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,That first did plant you there.For you and your green twigs decoyThe little witless Shepherd-boyTo 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 awakeDid 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 holdOur being, be we young or old,Wise, foolish, weak or strong."
Disasters, do the best we can,Will reach both great and small;And he is oft the wisest man,Who is not wise at all.For me, why should I wish to roam?This spot is my paternal home,It is my pleasant Heritage;My Father many a happy yearHere spread his careless blossoms, hereAttain'd a good old age.
Even such as his may be may lot.What cause have I to hauntMy heart with terrors? Am I notIn truth a favor'd plant!The Spring for me a garland weavesOf yellow flowers and verdant leaves,And, when the Frost is in the sky,My branches are so fresh and gayThat You might look on me and sayThis plant can never die.
The butterfly, all green and gold,To me hath often flown,Here in my Blossoms to beholdWings lovely as his own.When grass is chill with rain or dew,Beneath my shade the mother eweLies with her infant lamb; I seeThe love, they to each other make,And the sweet joy, which they partake,It is a joy to me.
Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;The Broom might have pursuedHer speech, until the stars of nightTheir journey had renew'd.But in the branches of the OakTwo Ravens now began to croakTheir nuptial song, a gladsome air;And to her own green bower the breezeThat instant brought two stripling BeesTo feed and murmur there.
One night the Wind came from the NorthAnd blew a furious blast,At break of day I ventur'd forthAnd near the Cliff I pass'd.The storm had fall'n upon the OakAnd struck him with a mighty stroke,And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away;And in one hospitable CleftThe little careless Broom was leftTo live for many a day.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,And when I cross'd the Wild,I chanc'd to see at break of dayThe solitary Child.
No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wild Moor,The sweetest Thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
You yet may spy the Fawn at play,The Hare upon the Green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night,You to the Town must go,And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour Mother thro' the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do;'Tis scarcely afternoon—The Minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the Moon."
At this the Father rais'd his hookAnd snapp'd a faggot-band;He plied his work, and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe,With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse, the powd'ry snowThat rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time,She wander'd up and down,And many a hill did Lucy climbBut never reach'd the Town.
The wretched Parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlook'd the Moor;And thence they saw the Bridge of WoodA furlong from their door.
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd"In Heaven we all shall meet!"When in the snow the Mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edgeThey 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 bankThe footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank,And further there were none.
Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living Child,That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome Wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS,
[Footnote 5: 'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.]
The valley rings with mirth and joy,Among the hills the Echoes playA never, never ending songTo welcome in the May.The Magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain Raven's youngling BroodHave left the Mother and the Nest,And they go rambling east and westIn search of their own food,Or thro' the glittering Vapors dartIn very wantonness of Heart.
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,Two Boys are sitting in the sun;It seems they have no work to doOr that their work is done.On pipes of sycamore they playThe fragments of a Christmas Hymn,Or with that plant which in our daleWe call Stag-horn, or Fox's TailTheir rusty Hats they trim:And thus as happy as the Day,Those Shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony margeThe sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;The thrush is busy in the Wood,And carols loud and strong.A thousand lambs are on the rocks,All newly born! both earth and skyKeep jubilee, and more than all,Those Boys with their green Coronal,They never hear the cry,That plaintive cry! which up the hillComes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,"Down to the stump of yon old yewI'll run with you a race."—No more—Away the Shepherds flew.They leapt, they ran, and when they cameRight 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."
"Till you have cross'd 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 seeIf ever you to Langdale go:Into a chasm a mighty BlockHath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;The gulph is deep below,And in a bason black and smallReceives a lofty Waterfall.
With staff in hand across the cleftThe Challenger began his march;And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'dThe 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,And, looking down, he spiesA Lamb, that in the pool is pentWithin that black and frightful rent.
The Lamb had slipp'd into the stream,And safe without a bruise or woundThe Cataract had borne him downInto the gulph profound,His dam had seen him when he fell,She saw him down the torrent borne;And while with all a mother's loveShe from the lofty rocks aboveSent forth a cry forlorn,The Lamb, still swimming round and roundMade answer to that plaintive sound.
When he had learnt, what thing it was,That sent this rueful cry; I ween,The Boy recover'd heart, and toldThe sight which he had seen.Both gladly now deferr'd their task;Nor was there wanting other aid—A Poet, one who loves the brooksFar better than the sages' books,By chance had thither stray'd;And there the helpless Lamb he foundBy those huge rocks encompass'd round.
He drew it gently from the pool,And brought it forth into the light;The Shepherds met him with his chargeAn 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 hiedAnd placed him at his Mother's side;And gently did the BardThose idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,And bade them better mind their trade.
'Tis said, that some have died for love:And here and there a church-yard grave is foundIn the cold North's unhallow'd 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 aloneUpon Helvellyn's side.He loved—The pretty Barbara died,And thus he makes his moan:Three years had Barbara in her grave been laidWhen thus his moan he made.
Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oakOr let the aged tree uprooted lie,That in some other way yon smokeMay 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.
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 my heart of rest.Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,Into yon row of willows flit,Upon that alder sit;Or sing another song, or 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 soundsThat cannot be sustain'd;If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged boughHeadlong 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 thy flowers,And stir not in the gale.For thus to see thee nodding in the air,To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,Thus rise and thus descend,Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.
The man who makes this feverish complaintIs one of giant stature, who could danceEquipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thineTo store up kindred hours for me, thy faceTurn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walkWithin the sound of Emma's voice, or knowSuch happiness as I have known to-day.
At the corner of Wood-Street, 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 heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA 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 Jove's,The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.
Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once moreThe 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.
INSCRIPTIONFor the Spot where theHERMITAGEstoodon St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.
If thou in the dear love of some one friendHast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughtsWill, sometimes, in the happiness of loveMake the heart sink, then wilt thou reverenceThis quiet spot.—St. Herbert hither cameAnd here, for many seasons, from the worldRemov'd, and the affections of the worldHe dwelt in solitude. He living here,This island's sole inhabitant! had leftA Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'dAs his own soul; and when within his caveAlone he knelt before the crucifixWhile o'er the lake the cataract of LodorePeal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'dAlong the beach of this small isle and thoughtOf his Companion, he had pray'd that bothMight die in the same moment. Nor in vainSo 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.
INSCRIPTIONFor the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seenBuildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'dProportions more harmonious, and approach'dTo somewhat of a closer fellowshipWith the ideal grace. Yet as it isDo take it in good part; for he, the poorVitruvius of our village, had no helpFrom the great city; never on the leavesOf red Morocco folio saw display'dThe skeletons and pre-existing ghostsOf Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.It is a homely pile, yet to these wallsThe heifer comes in the snow-storm, and hereThe new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes rowHis pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piledWith plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern,A lading which he with his sickle cutsAmong the mountains, and beneath this roofHe makes his summer couch, and here at noonSpreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheepPanting beneath the burthen of their woolLie round him, even as if they were a partOf his own household: nor, while from his bedHe through that door-place looks toward the lakeAnd to the stirring breezes, does he wantCreations lovely as the work of sleep,Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.
To a SEXTON.
Let thy wheel-barrow alone.Wherefore, Sexton, piling stillIn thy bone-house bone on bone?Tis already like a hillIn 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 squareTake not even a finger-joint:Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,Simon's sickly Daughter liesFrom weakness, now, and pain defended,Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener's pride,How he glories, when he seesRoses, lilies, side by side,Violets in families.
By the heart of Man, his tears,By his hopes and by his fears,Thou, old Grey-beard! art the WardenOf a far superior garden.
Thus then, each to other dear,Let them all in quiet lie,Andrew there and Susan here,Neighbours in mortality.
And should I live through sun and rainSeven widow'd years without my Jane,O Sexton, do not then remove her,Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!
I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breedHis children up to waste and pillage.I wish the press-gang or the drumWith its tantara sound would come,And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he lovesThrough the long day to swear and tipple;But for the poor dear sake of oneTo whom a foul deed he had done,A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!
For this poor crawling helpless wretchSome Horseman who was passing by,A penny on the ground had thrown;But the poor Cripple was aloneAnd could not stoop—no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the groundFor it had long been droughty weather:So with his staff the Cripple wroughtAmong the dust till he had broughtThe halfpennies together.
It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that wayJust at the time; and there he foundThe Cripple in the mid-day heatStanding alone, and at his feetHe 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."
AndhenceI said, that Andrew's boysWill all be train'd to waste and pillage;And wish'd the press-gang, or the drumWith its tantara sound, would comeAnd sweep him from the village!
The TWO THIEVES,Or the last Stage of AVARICE.
Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mineAnd the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne;When the Muses might deal with me just as they choseFor 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 landAnd for hunger and thirst and such troublesome callsEvery ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.
The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chairLet 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 weatherBetween them, and both go a stealing together.
With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?It 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 eyeThrough 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.
Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wiresOf manifold pleasures and many desires:And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no moreThan treading a path trod by thousands before.
'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is oneWho went something farther than others have gone;And now with old Daniel you see how it faresYou see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sunHas peer'd o'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.
Neither check'd 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 may'st thou live, for a teacher we seeThat lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.
A whirl-blast from behind the hillRush'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 undergroveOf tallest hollies, tall and green,A fairer bower was never seen.
From year to year the spacious floorWith 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! where'er the hailstones dropThe 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 shadeBy those embowering hollies made,The leaves in myriads jump and spring,As if with pipes and music rareSome 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 easeThat I may never cease to find,Even in appearances like theseEnough to nourish and to stir my mind!
Though the torrents from their fountainsRoar down many a craggy steep,Yet they find among the mountainsResting-places calm and deep.
Though almost with eagle pinionO'er the rocks the Chamois roam.Yet he has some small dominionWhich no doubt he calls his home.
If on windy days the RavenGambol like a dancing skiff,Not the less he loves his havenOn the bosom of the cliff.
Though the Sea-horse in the oceanOwn no dear domestic cave;Yet he slumbers without motionOn 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.
When Ruth was left half desolate,Her Father took another Mate;And so, not seven years old,The slighted Child at her own willWent wandering over dale and hillIn thoughtless freedom bold.
And she had made a pipe of strawAnd from that oaten pipe could drawAll sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn Infant of the woods.
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore,A military Casque he woreWith splendid feathers drest;He brought them from the Cherokees;The feathers nodded in the breezeAnd made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung:Ah no! he spake the English tongueAnd bare a Soldier's name;And when America was freeFrom battle and from jeopardyHe cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheekIn finest tones the Youth could speak.—While he was yet a BoyThe moon, the glory of the sun,And streams that murmur as they runHad been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth! I guessThe panther in the wildernessWas not so fair as he;And when he chose to sport and play,No dolphin ever was so gayUpon the tropic sea.
Among the Indians he had fought,And with him many tales he broughtOf pleasure and of fear,Such tales as told to any MaidBy such a Youth in the green shadeWere perilous to hear.
He told of Girls, a happy rout,Who quit their fold with dance and shoutTheir pleasant Indian TownTo gather strawberries all day long,Returning with a choral songWhen day-light is gone down.
He spake of plants divine and strangeThat ev'ry day their blossoms change,Ten thousand lovely hues!With budding, fading, faded flowersThey stand the wonder of the bowersFrom morn to evening dews.
He told of the Magnolia, [6] spreadHigh as a cloud, high over head!The Cypress and her spire,Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam [7]Cover a hundred leagues and seemTo set the hills on fire.
[Footnote 6: Magnolia grandiflora.]
[Footnote 7: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.]
The Youth of green Savannahs spake,And many an endless endless lakeWith all its fairy crowdsOf islands that together lieAs quietly as spots of skyAmong the evening clouds:
And then he said "How sweet it wereA fisher or a hunter there,A gardener in the shade,Still wandering with an easy mindTo build a household fire and findA home in every glade."
"What days and what sweet years! Ah me!Our life were life indeed, with theeSo pass'd in quiet bliss,And all the while" said he "to knowThat we were in a world of woe.On such an earth as this!"
And then he sometimes interwoveDear thoughts about a Father's love,"For there," said he, "are spunAround the heart such tender tiesThat our own children to our eyesAre dearer than the sun."
Sweet Ruth! and could you go with meMy helpmate in the woods to be,Our shed at night to rear;Or run, my own adopted bride,A sylvan huntress at my sideAnd drive the flying deer.
"Beloved Ruth!" No more he saidSweet Ruth alone at midnight shedA solitary tear,She thought again—and did agreeWith him to sail across the sea,And drive the flying deer.
"And now, as fitting is and right,We in the Church our faith will plight,A Husband and a Wife."Even so they did; and I may sayThat to sweet Ruth that happy dayWas more than human life.
Through dream and vision did she sink,Delighted all the while to thinkThat on those lonesome floodsAnd green Savannahs she should shareHis board with lawful joy, and bearHis name in the wild woods.
But, as you have before been told,This Stripling, sportive gay and bold,And, with his dancing crest,So beautiful, through savage landsHad roam'd about with vagrant bandsOf Indians in the West.
The wind, the tempest roaring high,The tumult of a tropic skyMight well be dangerous food.For him, a Youth to whom was givenSo much of earth so much of Heaven,And such impetuous blood.
Whatever in those climes he foundIrregular in sight or soundDid to his mind impartA kindred impulse, seem'd alliedTo his own powers, and justifiedThe workings of his heart.
Nor less to feed voluptuous thoughtThe beauteous forms of Nature wrought,Fair trees and lovely flowers;The breezes their own languor lent,The stars had feelings which they sentInto those magic bowers.
Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween,That sometimes there did intervenePure hopes of high intent:For passions link'd to forms so fairAnd stately, needs must have their shareOf noble sentiment.
But ill he liv'd, much evil sawWith men to whom no better lawNor better life was known;Deliberately and undeceiv'dThose wild men's vices he receiv'd,And gave them back his own.
His genius and his moral frameWere thus impair'd, and he becameThe slave of low desires;A man who without self-controulWould seek what the degraded soulUnworthily admires.
And yet he with no feign'd delightHad woo'd the Maiden, day and nightHad luv'd her, night and morn;What could he less than love a MaidWhose heart with so much nature play'dSo kind and so forlorn?
But now the pleasant dream was gone,No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,They stirr'd him now no more,New objects did new pleasure give,And once again he wish'd to liveAs lawless as before.
Meanwhile as thus with him it fared.They for the voyage were preparedAnd went to the sea-shore,But, when they thither came, the YouthDeserted his poor Bride, and RuthCould never find him more.
"God help thee Ruth!"—Such pains she hadThat she in half a year was madAnd in a prison hous'd,And there, exulting in her wrongs,Among the music of her songsShe fearfully carouz'd.
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,Nor pastimes of the May,They all were with her in her cell,And a wild brook with chearful knellDid o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lainThere came a respite to her pain,She from her prison fled;But of the Vagrant none took thought,And where it liked her best she soughtHer shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breath'd again:The master-current of her brainRan permanent and free,And to the pleasant Banks of Tone [8]She took her way, to dwell aloneUnder the greenwood tree.
The engines of her grief, the toolsThat shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools,And airs that gently stirThe vernal leaves, she loved them still,Nor ever tax'd them with the illWhich had been done to her.
[Footnote 8: 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 extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.]
A Barn herwinterbed supplies,But till the warmth of summer skiesAnd 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 press'd by want of foodShe from her dwelling in the woodRepairs to a road side,And there she begs at one steep place,Where up and down with easy paceThe horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is muteOr thrown away, but with a fluteHer loneliness she cheers;This flute made of a hemlock stalkAt evening in his homeward walkThe Quantock Woodman hears.
I, too have pass'd her on the hillsSetting her little water-millsBy spouts and fountains wild,Such small machinery as she turn'dEre she had wept, ere she had mourn'dA young and happy Child!
Farewel! and when thy days are toldIll-fated Ruth! in hallow'd moldThy corpse shall buried be,For thee a funeral bell shall ring,And all the congregation singA Christian psalm for thee.
LINESWritten with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heaplying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale.
Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stonesIs not a ruin of the ancient time,Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the CairnOf some old British Chief: 'tis nothing moreThan the rude embryo of a little domeOr pleasure-house, which was to have been builtAmong the birch-trees of this rocky isle.But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'dThat from the shore a full-grown man might wade,And make himself a freeman of this spotAt any hour he chose, the Knight forthwithDesisted, and the quarry and the moundAre monuments of his unfinish'd task.—The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps,Was once selected as the corner-stoneOf the intended pile, which would have beenSome 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 KnightBred in this vale to which he appertain'dWith all his ancestry. Then peace to himAnd for the outrage which he had devis'dEntire forgiveness.—But if thou art oneOn fire with thy impatience to becomeAn Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'dBy beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewnOut of the quiet rock the elementsOf thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blazeIn snow-white splendour, think again, and taughtBy old Sir William and his quarry, leaveThy 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.
In the School of —— is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.
If Nature, for a favorite ChildIn thee hath temper'd so her clay,That every hour thy heart runs wildYet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then reviewThis tablet, that thus humbly rearsIn such diversity of hueIts history of two hundred years.
—When through this little wreck of fame,Cypher and syllable, thine eyeHas travell'd down to Matthew's name,Pause with no common sympathy.
And if a sleeping tear should wakeThen be it neither check'd nor stay'd:For Matthew a request I makeWhich 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 sighsOf one tir'd out with fun and madness;The tears which came to Matthew's eyesWere tears of light, the oil of gladness.
Yet sometimes when the secret cupOf still and serious thought went roundIt seem'd as if he drank it up,He felt with spirit so profound.
—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould,Thou happy soul, and can it beThat these two words of glittering goldAre all that must remain of thee?
The Two April Mornings.
We walk'd along, while bright and redUprose 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 seeOn a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,And by the steaming rills,We travell'd merrily to passA day among the hills.
"Our work," said I, "was well begun;Then, from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?"
A second time did Matthew stop,And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-topTo me he made reply.
Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this which I have leftFull thirty years behind.
And on that slope of springing cornThe self-same crimson hueFell from the sky that April morn,The same which now I view!
With rod and line my silent sportI plied by Derwent's wave,And, coming to the church, stopp'd shortBeside my Daughter's grave.
Nine summers had she scarcely seenThe pride of all the vale;And then she sang!—she would have beenA very nightingale.
Six feet in earth my Emma lay,And yet I lov'd her more,For so it seem'd, than till that dayI e'er had lov'd before.
And, turning from her grave, I metBeside the church-yard YewA blooming Girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew.
The FOUNTAIN,A Conversation.
We talk'd with open heart, and tongueAffectionate and true,A pair of Friends, though I was young,And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,Beside a mossy seat,And from the turf a fountain broke,And gurgled at our feet.
Now, Matthew, let us try to matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old Border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon.
Or of the Church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shade,That half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!
On silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe 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 thinkHow oft, a vigorous Man, I layBeside this Fountain's brink.
My eyes are dim with childish tears.My heart is idly stirr'd,For the same sound is in my ears,Which in those days I heard.
Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns less for what age takes awayThan what it leaves behind.
The blackbird in the summer trees,The lark upon the hill,Let loose their carols when they please,Are quiet when they will.
With Nature never dotheywageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:
But we are press'd by heavy laws,And often, glad no more,We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore.
If there is one who need bemoanHis kindred laid in earth,The houshold 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 noneAm I enough belov'd."
"Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains!I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains,"
"And, Matthew, for thy Children deadI'll be a son to thee!"At this he grasp'd his hands, and said,"Alas! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side,And down the smooth descentOf 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 rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clockAnd the bewilder'd chimes.