IwishI were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;O that I were where Helen liesOn fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,And curst the hand that fired the shot,When in my arms burd Helen dropt,And died for sake o’ me!
O think na but my heart was sairWhen my Love dropt down and spak nae mair;I laid her down wi’ meikle careOn fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water-side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide,On fair Kirconnell lea;
I lighted down my sword to draw,I hacked him in pieces sma’,I hacked him in pieces sma’,For her that died for me.
O Helen fair, beyond compare!I’ll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermairUntil the day I die.
O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise,Says, ‘Haste and come to me!’
O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou liest low and tak’st thy restOn fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen’s arms lying,On fair Kirconnell lea.
I wish I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies,Since my Love died for me.
Theselived a wife at Usher’s WellAnd a wealthy wife was she;She had three stout and stalwart sons,And sent them over the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely ane,When word came to the carlin wifeThat her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,A week but barely three,When word came to the carlin wifeThat her sons she’d never see.
‘I wish the wind may never cease,Nor fashes in the flood,Till my three sons come hame to me,In earthly flesh and blood!’
It fell about the Martinmass,When nights are lang and mirk,The carlin wife’s three sons came hame,And their hats were of the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,Nor yet in ony sheugh;But at the gates o’ ParadiseThat birk grew fair eneugh.
‘Blow up the fire, my maidens!Bring water from the well;For a’ my house shall feast this night,Since my three sons are well.’
And she has made to them a bed,She’s made it large and wide;And she’s ta’en her mantle her about,Sat down at the bedside.
Up then crew the red, red cock,And up and crew the grey;The eldest to the youngest said,‘’Tis time we were awa!’
The cock he hadna crawed but once,And clapped his wings at a’,When the youngest to the eldest said,‘Brother, we must awa,’
‘The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,The channerin’ worm doth chide;Gin we be mist out o’ our place,A sair pain we maun bide.
‘Fare ye weel, my mother dear!Fareweel to barn and byre!And fare ye weel, the bonny lassThat kindles my mother’s fire!’
Lateat e’en, drinking the wineAnd e’er they paid the lawing,They set a combat them between,To fight it in the dawing.
‘O stay at hame, my noble lord,O stay at hame, my marrow!My cruel brother will you betrayOn the dowie houms of Yarrow.’
‘O fare ye weel, my lady gay!O fare ye weel, my Sarah!For I maun gae, though I ne’er returnFrae the dowie banks of Yarrow.’
She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,As oft she had done before, O;She belted him with his noble brand,And he’s awa to Yarrow.
As he gaed up the Terries’ bank,I wot he gaed with sorrow,Till down in a den he spied nine armed menOn the dowie houms of Yarrow.
‘O, come ye here to part your land,The bonnie forest thorough?Or come ye here to wield your brandOn the dowie houms of Yarrow?’
‘I come not here to part my land,And neither to beg or borrow;I come to wield my noble brandOn the bonnie banks of Yarrow.
‘If I see all, ye’re nine to ane;An’ that’s an unequal marrow:Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand,On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.’
Four has he hurt, and five has slain,On the bloody braes of Yarrow;Till that stubborn knight came him behind,And ran his body thorough.
‘Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John,And tell your sister Sarah,To come and lift her leafu’ lord;He’s sleeping sound on Yarrow.’
‘Yestreen I dreamed a dolefu’ dream;I fear there will be sorrow!I dreamed I pu’ed the heather greenWith my true love, on Yarrow.
‘O gentle wind that bloweth southFrom where my love repaireth,Convey a kiss from his dear mouth,And tell me how he fareth.
‘But in the glen strive armed men;They’ve wrought me dule and sorrow;They’ve slain—the comeliest knight they’ve slain—He bleeding lies on Yarrow.’
As she sped down yon high, high hill,She gaed wi’ dule and sorrow,And in the den spied ten slain men,On the dowie banks of Yarrow.
She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair,She searched his wounds all thorough,She kissed them till her lips grew red,On the dowie houms of Yarrow.
‘Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear,For a’ this breeds but sorrow;I’ll wed ye to a better lordThan him ye lost on Yarrow.’
‘O haud your tongue, my father dear,Ye mind me but of sorrow;A fairer rose did never bloomThan now lies cropped on Yarrow.’
Therecame a ghost to Marg’ret’s door,With many a grievous groan;And aye he tirled at the pin,But answer made she none.
‘Is that my father Philip?Or is’t my brother John?Or is’t my true-love Willie,From Scotland new come home?’
‘’Tis not thy father Philip,Nor yet thy brother John,But ’tis thy true-love WillieFrom Scotland new come home.
‘O sweet Marg’ret, O dear Marg’ret!I pray thee speak to me;Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,Nor it will I thee lend,Till that thou come within my bowerAnd kiss me cheek and chin.’
‘If I should come within thy bower,I am no earthly man;And should I kiss thy ruby lipsThy days would not be lang.
‘O sweet Marg’ret! O dear Marg’ret,I pray thee speak to me;Give me my faith and troth, Marg’ret,As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,Nor it will I thee lend,Till thou take me to yon kirk-yard,And wed me with a ring.’
‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yardAfar beyond the sea;And it is but my spirit, Marg’ret,That’s now speaking to thee.’
She stretched out her lily-white handAnd for to do her best:‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willie;God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robe o’ greenA piece below her knee,And a’ the live-lang winter nightThe dead corp followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willie,Or any room at your feet?Or any room at your side, Willie,Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s nae room at my head, Marg’ret,There’s nae room at my feet;There’s nae room at my side, Marg’ret,My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red red cock,And up and crew the grey;‘’Tis time, ’tis time, my dear Marg’ret,That you were gane awa.’
Theking sits in Dumfermline toun,Drinking the blude-red wine;‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o’ mine?’
O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee;‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letterAnd sealed it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick SpensWas walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway ower the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway’Tis thou must bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e’e.
‘O wha is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time o’ year,To sail upon the sea?
‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway’Tis we must fetch her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi’ a’ the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
They hadna been a week, a week,In Noroway but twae,When that the lords o’ NorowayBegan aloud to say:
‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s goud,And a’ our queenis fee.’‘Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud!Fu’ loud I hear ye lee.
‘For I have brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me,And I hae brought a half-fou of gude red gouldOut o’er the sea wi’ me.
‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’!Our good ship sails the morn.’‘Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.
‘I saw the new moon late yestreenWi’ the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’
They hadna sailed a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the top-mast lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam o’er the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.
‘O where will I get a gude sailorTo tak the helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast,To see if I can spy land?’
‘O here am I, a sailor gude,To tak the helm in hand,Till you go up to the tall top-mast,But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’
He hadna gaen a step, a stepA step but barely ane,When a boult flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.
‘Gae fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And let nae the sea come in.’
They fetched a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heeled shoon;But lang or a’ the play was playedThey wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bedThat floated on the faem;And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair came hame.
The ladyes wrang their fingers white,The maidens tore their hair,A’ for the sake o’ their true loves,—For them they’ll see nae mair.
O lang, lang may the ladyes sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,With their goud kaims in their hair,A’ waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they’ll see nae mair.
Half ower, half ower to Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
Hame! hame! hame! O hame fain wad I be!O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie.When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o’ loyalty’s beginning now to fa’;The bonnie white rose it is withering an’ a’;But we’ll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie,And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
O, there’s nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open the grave,That a’ the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltieMay rise again and fight for their ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
The great now are gane, who attempted to save;The green grass is growing abune their graves;Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to meI’ll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
Thisae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.
When thou from hence away art past,Every nighte and alle,To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,Every nighte and alle,Sit thee down and put them on;And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane,Every nighte and alle,The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last,And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,Every nighte and alle,To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last,And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,Every nighte and alle,The fire sall never make thee shrink;And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat and drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,Every nighte and alle,The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,Every nighte and alle,Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,And Christe receive thy saule.
To the Pious Memory of the accomplished young lady,Mrs. Anne Killigrew,excellent in the two sister artsof Poesy and Painting
Thouyoungest virgin-daughter of the skies,Made in the last promotion of the blest;Whose palms, new-plucked from paradise,In spreading branches more sublimely rise,Rich with immortal green, above the rest:Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,Thou roll’st above us in thy wandering race,Or in procession fixed and regularMoved with the heaven’s majestic pace,Or called to more superior bliss,Thou tread’st with seraphims the vast abyss:Whatever happy region be thy place,Cease thy celestial song a little space;Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,Since heaven’s eternal year is thine.Hear, then, a mortal muse thy praise rehearse,In no ignoble verse,But such as thy own voice did practise here,When thy first-fruits of poesy were givenTo make thyself a welcome inmate there;While yet a young probationerAnd candidate of heaven.
If by traduction came thy mind,Our wonder is the less to findA soul so charming from a stock so good;Thy father was transfused into thy blood:So wert thou born into the tuneful strain(An early, rich and inexhausted vein).But if thy pre-existing soulWas formed at first with myriads more,It did through all the mighty poets rollWho Greek or Latin laurels wore,And was that Sappho last, which once it was before.If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind!Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore:Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion findThan was the beauteous frame she left behind:Return, to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.
May we presume to say that, at thy birth,New joy was sprung in heaven as well as here on earth?For sure the milder planets did combineOn thy auspicious horoscope to shine,And even the most malicious were in trine.Thy brother angels at thy birthStrung each his lyre, and tuned it high,That all the people of the skyMight know a poetess was born on earth;And then, if ever, mortal earsHad heard the music of the spheres.And if no clustering swarm of beesOn thy sweet mouth distilled their golden dew,’Twas that such vulgar miraclesHeaven had not leisure to renew:For all the best fraternity of loveSolemnized there thy birth, and kept thy holiday above.
O gracious God! how far have weProfaned Thy heavenly gift of poesy!Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,Debased to each obscene and impious use,Whose harmony was first ordained above,For tongues of angels and for hymns of love!O wretched we! why were we hurried downThis lubric and adulterate age(Nay, added fat pollutions of our own),To increase the steaming ordures of the stage?What can we say to excuse our second fall?Let this thy Vestal, heaven, atone for all!Her Arethusan stream remains unsoiled,Unmixed with foreign filth and undefiled;Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.Art she had none, yet wanted none,For Nature did that want supply:So rich in treasures of her own,She might our boasted stores defy:Such noble vigour did her verse adornThat it seemed borrowed, where ’twas only born.Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred,By great examples daily fed,What in the best of books, her father’s life, she read.And to be read herself she need not fear;Each test and every light her muse will bear,Though Epictetus with his lamp were there.Even love (for love sometimes her muse expressed)Was but a lambent flame which played about her breast,Light as the vapours of a morning dream;So cold herself, while she such warmth expressed,’Twas Cupid bathing in Diana’s stream.
* * * * *
When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,To raise the nations underground;When in the valley of JehosophatThe judging God shall close the book of Fate,And there the last assizes keepFor those who wake and those who sleep;When rattling bones together flyFrom the four quarters of the sky;When sinews o’er the skeletons are spread,Those clothed with flesh, and life inspires the dead;The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,And foremost from the tomb shall bound,For they are covered with the lightest ground;And straight with inborn vigour, on the wing,Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing.There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shalt go,As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,The way which thou so well hast learned below.
Lovein fantastic triumph sat,Whilst bleeding hearts around him flowed,For whom fresh pains he did create;And strange tyrannic power he showed.From thy bright eyes he took his fires,Which round about in sport he hurled;But ’twas from mine he took desiresEnough to undo the amorous world.
From me he took his sighs and tears,From thee his pride and cruelty;From me his languishment and fears,And every killing dart from thee.Thus thou and I the god have armed,And set him up a deity;But my poor heart alone is harmed,Whilst thine the victor is, and free.
Thespacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens (a shining frame!)Their great Original proclaim,The unwearied sun from day to dayDoth his Creator’s power display,And publisheth to every landThe work of an almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence allMove round this dark terrestrial ball?What though no real voice nor soundAmid their radiant orbs be found?In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,For ever singing as they shine,‘The hand that made us is divine.’
To the Memory of an unfortunate Lady
Whatbeckoning ghost along the moonlight shadeInvites my steps, and points to yonder glade?’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored?Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?O ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,Is it in heaven a crime to love too well,To bear too tender or too firm a heart,To act a lover’s or a Roman’s part?Is there no bright reversion in the sky,For those who greatly think or bravely die?Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspireAbove the vulgar flight of low desire?Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes,The glorious fault of angels and of gods.Thence to their images on earth it flows,And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,Dull, sullen pris’ners in the body’s cage;Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,And close confined to their own palace, sleep.From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.As into air the purer spirits flow,And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;So flew the soul to its congenial place,Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,Thou mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;Cold is that breath which warmed the world before,And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.Thus, if Eternal Justice rules the ball,Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall:On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;There passengers shall stand, and pointing say(While the long fun’rals blacken all the way),‘Lo! these were they whose souls the Furies steeled,And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield.Thus unlamented pass the proud away,The gaze of fools, and pageants of a day!So perish all whose breasts ne’er learned to glowFor others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.’What can atone (O ever injured shade!)Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tearPleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned.What though no friends in sable weeds appear,Grieve for an hour perhaps, then mourn a year,And bear about the mockery of woeTo midnight dances, and the public show?What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,Nor polished marble emulate thy face?What though no sacred earth allow thee room,Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dressed,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow;While angels with their silver wings o’ershadeThe ground, now sacred by thy relics made.So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame.How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,To whom related, or by whom begot;A heap of dust alone remains of thee:’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.Ev’n he whose soul now melts in mournful laysShall shortly want the gen’rous tear he pays;Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
Othatthose lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,‘Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!’The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blest be the art that can immortalise,The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,O welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bid’st me honour with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long.I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream, that thou art she.My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss;Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—yes.I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art goneAdieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shoreThe parting word shall pass my lips no more!Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished, I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived,By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe ofto-morroweven from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learnt at last submission to my lot,But though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,’Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fairThat memory keeps of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm, that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced:Thy nightly visits to my chamber paidThat thou might’st know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit, or confectionary plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,Ne’er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,That humour interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory’s page,And still to be so till my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honours to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, the jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),Could those few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might—But no—what here we call our life is such,So little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed),Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods, that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,‘Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,’And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life, long since has anchored at thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed—Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current’s thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet, O the thought that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies.And now, farewell—Time unrevoked has runHis wonted course, yet what I wished is done.By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,I seem to have lived my childhood o’er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine;And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we met,I own to me’s a secret yet.
Life! we’ve been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;’Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good-night—but in some brighter climeBid me Good-morning.
Awake, awake, my little boy!Thou wast thy mother’s only joy.Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?Awake, thy Father does thee keep.
‘O, what land is the Land of Dreams,What are its mountains and what are its streams?O father, I saw my mother there,Among the lilies by waters fair.
‘Among the lambs clothed in white,She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight;I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn,O, when shall I again return?’
Dear child, I also by pleasant streamsHave wandered all night in the Land of Dreams,But though calm and warm the waters wide,I could not get to the other side.
‘Father, O Father! what do we here,In this land of unbelief and fear?The Land of Dreams is better farAbove the light of the morning star.’
Pipingdown the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:—
‘Pipe a song about a lamb.’So I piped with merry cheer.‘Piper, pipe that song again.’So I piped; he wept to hear.
‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,Sing thy songs of happy cheer.’So I sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
‘Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a hook that all may read’:So he vanished from my sight,And I plucked a hollow reed;
And I made a rural pen,And I stained the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
’Twason a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own;The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now, like a mighty wind, they raise to heaven the voice of song,Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among;Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Whetheron Ida’s shady brow,Or in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the air,Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye roveBeneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove,—Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoyed in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
Neverseek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind doth moveSilently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart,Trembling, cold, in ghastly fearsAh! she did depart.
Soon after she was gone from meA traveller came by,Silently, invisibly:He took her with a sigh.
On turning her up in her nest with the plough,November, 1785
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,O what a panic’s in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi’ bickerin’ brattle!I wad be laith to rin an’ chase theeWi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominionHas broken Nature’s social union,An’ justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor earth-born companion,An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen-icker in a thrave’S a sma’ request:I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,And never miss’t!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’:And naething, now, to big a new ane,O’ foggage green!An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,An’ weary winter comin’ fast,An’ cozy here beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till crash! the cruel coulter pastOut through thy cell.
That wee bit heap o’ leaves and stibbleHas cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter’s sleety dribbleAn’ cranreuch cauld!
But, mousie, thou art no thy laneIn proving foresight may be vain:The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ menGang aft a-gley,An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,For promised joy.
Still thou art blest compared wi’ me!The present only toucheth thee:But, och! I backward cast my e’eOn prospects drear!An’ forward though I canna see,I guess and fear!
Itwas a’ for our rightfu’ kingWe left fair Scotland’s strand;It was a’ for our rightfu’ kingWe e’er saw Irish land,My dear,We e’er saw Irish land.
Now a’ is done that man can do,And a’ is done in vain;My love and native land farewell,For I maun cross the main,My dear,For I maun cross the main.
He turned him right and round aboutUpon the Irish shore;And gae his bridle-reins a shake,With Adieu for evermore,My dear,Adieu for evermore.
The sodger frae the wars returns,The sailor frae the main;But I hae parted frae my love,Never to meet again,My dear,Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,And a’ folks bound to sleep;I think on him that’s far awa’,The lee-lang night, and weep,My dear,The lee-lang night, and weep.
Whyart thou silent? Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,Bound to thy service with unceasing care—The mind’s least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.Speak!—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary coldThan a forsaken bird’s-nest filled with snow’Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,They were thy chosen music, Liberty!There came a tyrant, and with holy gleeThou fought’st against him—but hast vainly striven:Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.—Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left—For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it beThat Mountain floods should thunder as before,And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
Itis a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in his tranquillity;The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea;Listen! the mighty Being is awake,And doth with his eternal motion makeA sound like thunder—everlastingly.Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,Thy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year,And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrineGod being with thee when we know it not.
Oncedid She hold the gorgeous East in fee,And was the safeguard of the West; the worthOf Venice did not fall below her birth,Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.She was a maiden city, bright and free;No guile seduced, no force could violate;And when she took unto herself a mate,She must espouse the everlasting Sea.And what if she had seen those glories fade,Those titles vanish, and that strength decay—Yet shall some tribute of regret be paidWhen her long life hath reached its final day;Men are we, and must grieve when even the shadeOf that which once was great is passed away.
Ofriend! I know not which way I must lookFor comfort; being, as I am, oppressedTo think that now our life is only dressedFor show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brookIn the open sunshine, or we are unblessed;The wealthiest man among us is the best;No grandeur now in nature or in bookDelights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,—This is idolatry; and these we adore;Plain living and high thinking are no more;The homely beauty of the good old causeIs gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,And pure religion breathing household laws.
Surprisedby joy—impatient as the wind—I turned to share the transport—O! with whomBut thee—deep buried in the silent tomb,That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—But how could I forget thee? Through what power,Even for the least division of an hour,Have I been so beguiled as to be blindTo my most grievous loss!—That thought’s returnWas the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;That neither present time nor years unbornCould to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!Whether the all-cheering sun be free to shedHis beams around thee, or thou rest thy headPillowed in some dark dungeon’s noisome den—O miserable chieftain! where and whenWilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thouWear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behindPowers that will work for thee: air, earth, and skies;There’s not a breathing of the common windThat will forget thee; thou hast great allies;Thy friends are exultations, agonies,And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.
Withships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;Some lying fast at anchor in the road,Some veering up and down, one knew not why.A goodly vessel did I then espyCome like a giant from a haven broad;And lustily along the bay she strode,‘Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.’This ship was naught to me, nor I to her,Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look;This ship to all the rest did I prefer:When will she turn, and whither? She will brookNo tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:On went she—and due north her journey took.
TheWorld is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,The winds that will be howling at all hoursAnd are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,—For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,—So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Earthhas not anything to show more fair:Dull would he be of soul who could pass byA sight so touching in its majesty:This city now doth like a garment wearThe beauty of the morning: silent, bare,Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lieOpen unto the fields, and to the sky,—All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.Never did sun more beautifully steepIn his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!The river glideth at his own sweet will:Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;And all that mighty heart is lying still!
WhenI have borne in memory what has tamedGreat nations; how ennobling thoughts depart,What men change swords for ledgers, and desertThe student’s bower for gold,—some fears unnamedI had, my country!—am I to be blamed?Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,Verily, in the bottom of my heartOf those unfilial fears I am ashamed.For dearly must we prize thee; we do findIn thee a bulwark for the cause of men;And I by my affection was beguiled:What wonder if a Poet now and then,Among the many movements of his mind,Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
Threeyears she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown.This child I to myself will take:She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.
‘Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse; and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn,That wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And hers shall be the breathing balm,And hers the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.
‘The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeEv’n in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden’s formBy silent sympathy.
‘The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her, and she shall lean her earIn many a secret place,Where rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
‘And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.’
Thus Nature spake. The work was done—How soon my Lucy’s race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
Iwanderedlonely as a cloudThat floats on high o’er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the trees,Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretched in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;
For oft when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
Beholdher, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grainAnd sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:A voice so thrilling ne’er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o’er the sickle bending;—I listened, motionless and still;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm
Iwasthy neighbour once, thou rugged pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene’er I looked, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,No mood, which season takes away or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah! then—if mine had been the painter’s handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration, and the Poet’s dream,—
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divineOf peaceful years: a chronicle of heaven;—Of all the sunbeams that did ever shineThe very sweetest had to thee been given.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide; a breeze;Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.
So once it would have been—’tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone which nothing can restore;A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been;The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friendIf he had lived, of him whom I deplore.This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
O ’tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind!Such happiness, wherever it be known,Is to be pitied, for ’tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne,—Such sights, or worse, as are before me here!Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
(Hartley Coleridge;six years old.)
Othou! whose fancies from afar are brought;Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,And fittest to unutterable thoughtThe breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;Thou fairy voyager! that dost floatIn such clear water that thy boatMay rather seemTo brood on air than on an earthly stream;Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;O blessed vision! O happy child!That art so exquisitely wild,I think of thee with many fearsFor what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when pain might be thy guest,Lord of thy house and hospitality;And grief, uneasy lover! never restBut when she sat within the touch of thee.O! too industrious folly!O! vain and causeless melancholy!Nature will either end thee quite;Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,Preserve for thee, by individual right,A young lamb’s heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,Or the injuries of to-morrow?Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth,Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks;Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;A gem that glitters while it lives,And no forewarning gives;But, at the touch of wrong, without a strifeSlips in a moment out of life.