From Stirling Castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravell'd,Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travell'd;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my 'winsome Marrow,''Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.''Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow.'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryburgh, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a landMade blithe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?'What's Yarrow but a river bareThat glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder.'—Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,And look'd me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path and open strathWe'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow.'Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still Saint Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow.'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own,Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!'If Care with freezing years should comeAnd wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrowThat earth has something yet to show,The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
From Stirling Castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravell'd,Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travell'd;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my 'winsome Marrow,''Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryburgh, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a landMade blithe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?
'What's Yarrow but a river bareThat glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder.'—Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;My True-love sigh'd for sorrow,And look'd me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!
'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path and open strathWe'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow.
'Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still Saint Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow.
'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own,Ah! why should we undo it?The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!
'If Care with freezing years should comeAnd wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrowThat earth has something yet to show,The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
W. Wordsworth
September, 1814
And is this—Yarrow?—This the streamOf which my fancy cherish'dSo faithfully, a waking dream,An image that hath perish'd?O that some minstrel's harp were nearTo utter notes of gladnessAnd chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness!Yet why?—a silvery current flowsWith uncontroll'd meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, Saint Mary's LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffused,A tender hazy brightness;Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn which the herd is feeding:And haply from this crystal pool,Now peaceful as the morning,The Water-wraith ascended thrice,And gave his doleful warning.Delicious is the lay that singsThe haunts of happy lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And pity sanctifies the verseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of dayHer delicate creation:Meek loveliness is round thee spread,A softness still and holy:The grace of forest charms decay'd,And pastoral melancholy.That region left, the vale unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf cultivated nature;And rising from those lofty grovesBehold a ruin hoary,The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,Renown'd in Border story.Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,For sportive youth to stray in,For manhood to enjoy his strength,And age to wear away in!Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,A covert for protectionOf tender thoughts that nestle there—The brood of chaste affection.How sweet on this autumnal dayThe wild-wood fruits to gather,And on my True-love's forehead plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own?'Twere no offence to reason;The sober hills thus deck their browsTo meet the wintry season.I see—but not by sight alone,Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;A ray of Fancy still survives—Her sunshine plays upon thee!Thy ever-youthful waters keepA course of lively pleasure;And gladsome notes my lips can breatheAccordant to the measure.The vapours linger round the heights,They melt, and soon must vanish;One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—Sad thought! which I would banish,But that I know, where'er I go,Thy genuine image, Yarrow!Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,And cheer my mind in sorrow.
And is this—Yarrow?—This the streamOf which my fancy cherish'dSo faithfully, a waking dream,An image that hath perish'd?O that some minstrel's harp were nearTo utter notes of gladnessAnd chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness!
Yet why?—a silvery current flowsWith uncontroll'd meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, Saint Mary's LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.
A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffused,A tender hazy brightness;Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.
Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn which the herd is feeding:And haply from this crystal pool,Now peaceful as the morning,The Water-wraith ascended thrice,And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the lay that singsThe haunts of happy lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And pity sanctifies the verseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imagination,Dost rival in the light of dayHer delicate creation:Meek loveliness is round thee spread,A softness still and holy:The grace of forest charms decay'd,And pastoral melancholy.
That region left, the vale unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf cultivated nature;And rising from those lofty grovesBehold a ruin hoary,The shatter'd front of Newark's towers,Renown'd in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,For sportive youth to stray in,For manhood to enjoy his strength,And age to wear away in!Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,A covert for protectionOf tender thoughts that nestle there—The brood of chaste affection.
How sweet on this autumnal dayThe wild-wood fruits to gather,And on my True-love's forehead plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own?'Twere no offence to reason;The sober hills thus deck their browsTo meet the wintry season.
I see—but not by sight alone,Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;A ray of Fancy still survives—Her sunshine plays upon thee!Thy ever-youthful waters keepA course of lively pleasure;And gladsome notes my lips can breatheAccordant to the measure.
The vapours linger round the heights,They melt, and soon must vanish;One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—Sad thought! which I would banish,But that I know, where'er I go,Thy genuine image, Yarrow!Will dwell with me, to heighten joy,And cheer my mind in sorrow.
W. Wordsworth
Best and brightest, come away,—Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee, to those in sorrowComes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn SpringThrough the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon mornTo hoar February born;Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free,And waked to music all their fountains,And breathed upon the frozen mountains,And like a prophetess of MayStrew'd flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear.Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music, lest it should not findAn echo in another's mind,While the touch of Nature's artHarmonizes heart to heart.Radiant Sister of the DayAwake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,To the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green, and ivy dun,Round stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures beAnd the sandhills of the sea;Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers and violetsWhich yet join not scent to hueCrown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dim and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal Sun.
Best and brightest, come away,—Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee, to those in sorrowComes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough year just awakeIn its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn SpringThrough the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon mornTo hoar February born;Bending from heaven, in azure mirth,It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free,And waked to music all their fountains,And breathed upon the frozen mountains,And like a prophetess of MayStrew'd flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music, lest it should not findAn echo in another's mind,While the touch of Nature's artHarmonizes heart to heart.
Radiant Sister of the DayAwake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,To the pools where winter rainsImage all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green, and ivy dun,Round stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures beAnd the sandhills of the sea;Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers and violetsWhich yet join not scent to hueCrown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dim and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinousBillows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal Sun.
P. B. Shelley
Now the last day of many daysAll beautiful and bright as thou,The loveliest and the last, is dead:Rise, Memory, and write its praise!Up—to thy wonted work! come, traceThe epitaph of glory fled,For now the earth has changed its face,A frown is on the heaven's brow.We wander'd to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean's foam;The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deepThe smile of heaven lay;It seem'd as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skiesWhich scatter'd from above the sunA light of Paradise!We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,—And soothed by every azure breathThat under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own:Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean-woods may be.How calm it was!—The silence thereBy such a chain was bound,That even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller with her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seem'd, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around,A thrilling silent life;To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature's strife;—And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that fill'd with loveThe lifeless atmosphere.We paused beside the pools that lieUnder the forest bough;Each seem'd as 'twere a little skyGulf'd in a world below;A firmament of purple lightWhich in the dark earth lay,More boundless than the depth of nightAnd purer than the day—In which the lovely forests grewAs in the upper air,More perfect both in shape and hueThan any spreading there.There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,And through the dark-green woodThe white sun twinkling like the dawnOut of a speckled cloud.Sweet views which in our world aboveCan never well be seenWere imaged in the water's loveOf that fair forest green:And all was interfused beneathWith an Elysian glow,An atmosphere without a breath,A softer day below.Like one beloved, the scene had lentTo the dark water's breastIts every leaf and lineamentWith more than truth exprest;Until an envious wind crept by,Like an unwelcome thoughtWhich from the mind's too faithful eyeBlots one dear image out.—Though thou art ever fair and kind,The forests ever green,Less oft is peace in Shelley's mindThan calm in waters seen!
Now the last day of many daysAll beautiful and bright as thou,The loveliest and the last, is dead:Rise, Memory, and write its praise!Up—to thy wonted work! come, traceThe epitaph of glory fled,For now the earth has changed its face,A frown is on the heaven's brow.
We wander'd to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean's foam;The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deepThe smile of heaven lay;It seem'd as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skiesWhich scatter'd from above the sunA light of Paradise!
We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,—And soothed by every azure breathThat under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own:Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean-woods may be.
How calm it was!—The silence thereBy such a chain was bound,That even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller with her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seem'd, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around,A thrilling silent life;To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature's strife;—And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that fill'd with loveThe lifeless atmosphere.
We paused beside the pools that lieUnder the forest bough;Each seem'd as 'twere a little skyGulf'd in a world below;A firmament of purple lightWhich in the dark earth lay,More boundless than the depth of nightAnd purer than the day—In which the lovely forests grewAs in the upper air,More perfect both in shape and hueThan any spreading there.There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,And through the dark-green woodThe white sun twinkling like the dawnOut of a speckled cloud.Sweet views which in our world aboveCan never well be seenWere imaged in the water's loveOf that fair forest green:And all was interfused beneathWith an Elysian glow,An atmosphere without a breath,A softer day below.Like one beloved, the scene had lentTo the dark water's breastIts every leaf and lineamentWith more than truth exprest;Until an envious wind crept by,Like an unwelcome thoughtWhich from the mind's too faithful eyeBlots one dear image out.—Though thou art ever fair and kind,The forests ever green,Less oft is peace in Shelley's mindThan calm in waters seen!
P. B. Shelley
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its 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 untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;The holy time is quiet as a NunBreathless with adoration; the broad sunIs sinking down in its 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 untouch'd by solemn thoughtThy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,God being with thee when we know it not.
W. Wordsworth
Star that bringest home the bee,And sett'st the weary labourer free!If any star shed peace, 'tis ThouThat send'st it from above,Appearing when Heaven's breath and browAre sweet as hers we love.Come to the luxuriant skies,Whilst the landscape's odours rise,Whilst far-off lowing herds are heardAnd songs when toil is done,From cottages whose smoke unstirr'dCurls yellow in the sun.Star of love's soft interviews,Parted lovers on thee muse;Their remembrancer in HeavenOf thrilling vows thou art,Too delicious to be rivenBy absence from the heart.
Star that bringest home the bee,And sett'st the weary labourer free!If any star shed peace, 'tis ThouThat send'st it from above,Appearing when Heaven's breath and browAre sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,Whilst the landscape's odours rise,Whilst far-off lowing herds are heardAnd songs when toil is done,From cottages whose smoke unstirr'dCurls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,Parted lovers on thee muse;Their remembrancer in HeavenOf thrilling vows thou art,Too delicious to be rivenBy absence from the heart.
T. Campbell
The sun upon the lake is low,The wild birds hush their song,The hills have evening's deepest glow,Yet Leonard tarries long.Now all whom varied toil and careFrom home and love divide,In the calm sunset may repairEach to the loved one's side.The noble dame, on turret high,Who waits her gallant knight,Looks to the western beam to spyThe flash of armour bright.The village maid, with hand on browThe level ray to shade,Upon the footpath watches nowFor Colin's darkening plaid.Now to their mates the wild swans row,By day they swam apart,And to the thicket wanders slowThe hind beside the hart.The woodlark at his partner's sideTwitters his closing song—All meet whom day and care divide,But Leonard tarries long!
The sun upon the lake is low,The wild birds hush their song,The hills have evening's deepest glow,Yet Leonard tarries long.Now all whom varied toil and careFrom home and love divide,In the calm sunset may repairEach to the loved one's side.
The noble dame, on turret high,Who waits her gallant knight,Looks to the western beam to spyThe flash of armour bright.The village maid, with hand on browThe level ray to shade,Upon the footpath watches nowFor Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,By day they swam apart,And to the thicket wanders slowThe hind beside the hart.The woodlark at his partner's sideTwitters his closing song—All meet whom day and care divide,But Leonard tarries long!
Sir W. Scott
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,—And ever-changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?
Art thou pale for wearinessOf climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,Wandering companionlessAmong the stars that have a different birth,—And ever-changing, like a joyless eyeThat finds no object worth its constancy?
P. B. Shelley
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass byOne after one; the sound of rain, and beesMurmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lieSleepless; and soon the small birds' melodiesMust hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:So do not let me wear to-night away:Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass byOne after one; the sound of rain, and beesMurmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lieSleepless; and soon the small birds' melodiesMust hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
W. Wordsworth
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of strawBy the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought from the battle-field's dreadful arrayFar, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.'Stay—stay with us!—rest!—thou art weary and worn!'—And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of strawBy the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful arrayFar, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:'Twas Autumn,—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
'Stay—stay with us!—rest!—thou art weary and worn!'—And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;—But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
T. Campbell
I dream'd that as I wander'd by the wayBare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wetsIts mother's face with heaven-collected tears,When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentineWith its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.And nearer to the river's trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues, which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison'd children of the HoursWithin my hand,—and then, elate and gay,I hasten'd to the spot whence I had comeThat I might there present it—O! to Whom?
I dream'd that as I wander'd by the wayBare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,And gentle odours led my steps astray,Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuringAlong a shelving bank of turf, which layUnder a copse, and hardly dared to flingIts green arms round the bosom of the stream,But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,The constellated flower that never sets;Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birthThe sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wetsIts mother's face with heaven-collected tears,When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wineWas the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;And wild roses, and ivy serpentineWith its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edgeThere grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,And starry river-buds among the sedge,And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,Which lit the oak that overhung the hedgeWith moonlight beams of their own watery light;And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep greenAs soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowersI made a nosegay, bound in such a wayThat the same hues, which in their natural bowersWere mingled or opposed, the like arrayKept these imprison'd children of the HoursWithin my hand,—and then, elate and gay,I hasten'd to the spot whence I had comeThat I might there present it—O! to Whom?
P. B. Shelley
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she play'd,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win meThat with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail.Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she play'd,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win meThat with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
S. T. Coleridge
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyesTo pace the ground, if path be there or none,While a fair region round the traveller liesWhich he forbears again to look upon;Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,The work of Fancy, or some happy toneOf meditation, slipping in betweenThe beauty coming and the beauty gone.—If Thought and Love desert us, from that dayLet us break off all commerce with the Muse:With Thought and Love companions of our way—Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dewsOf inspiration on the humblest lay.
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyesTo pace the ground, if path be there or none,While a fair region round the traveller liesWhich he forbears again to look upon;
Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,The work of Fancy, or some happy toneOf meditation, slipping in betweenThe beauty coming and the beauty gone.
—If Thought and Love desert us, from that dayLet us break off all commerce with the Muse:With Thought and Love companions of our way—
Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,—The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dewsOf inspiration on the humblest lay.
W. Wordsworth
Ever let the Fancy roam;Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;Then let wingéd Fancy wanderThrough the thought still spread beyond her:Open wide the mind's cage-door,She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.O sweet Fancy! let her loose;Summer's joys are spoilt by use,And the enjoying of the SpringFades as does its blossoming;Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,Blushing through the mist and dew,Cloys with tasting: What do then?Sit thee by the ingle, whenThe sear faggot blazes bright,Spirit of a winter's night;When the soundless earth is muffled,And the cakéd snow is shuffledFrom the ploughboy's heavy shoon;When the Night doth meet the NoonIn a dark conspiracyTo banish Even from her sky.Sit thee there, and send abroad,With a mind self-overaw'd,Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!She has vassals to attend her:She will bring, in spite of frost,Beauties that the earth hath lost;She will bring thee, all together,All delights of summer weather;All the buds and bells of May,From dewy sward or thorny spray;All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,With a still, mysterious stealth:She will mix these pleasures upLike three fit wines in a cup,And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hearDistant harvest-carols clear;Rustle of the reapéd corn;Sweet birds antheming the morn:And, in the same moment—hark!'Tis the early April lark,Or the rooks, with busy caw,Foraging for sticks and straw.Thou shalt, at one glance, beholdThe daisy and the marigold;White-plumed lilies, and the firstHedge-grown primrose that hath burst;Shaded hyacinth, alwaySapphire queen of the mid-May;And every leaf, and every flowerPearléd with the self-same shower.Thou shalt see the field-mouse peepMeagre from its celléd sleep;And the snake all winter-thinCast on sunny bank its skin;Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt seeHatching in the hawthorn-tree,When the hen-bird's wing doth restQuiet on her mossy nest;Then the hurry and alarmWhen the bee-hive casts its swarm;Acorns ripe down-pattering,While the autumn breezes sing.Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;Everything is spoilt by use:Where's the cheek that doth not fade,Too much gazed at? Where's the maidWhose lip mature is ever new?Where's the eye, however blue,Doth not weary? Where's the faceOne would meet in every place?Where's the voice, however soft,One would hear so very oft?At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethLike to bubbles when rain pelteth.Let then wingéd Fancy findThee a mistress to thy mind:Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,Ere the God of Torment taught herHow to frown and how to chide;With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe's, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held the goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.—Break the meshOf the Fancy's silken leash;Quickly break her prison-string,And such joys as these she'll bring.—Let the wingéd Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.
Ever let the Fancy roam;Pleasure never is at home:At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;Then let wingéd Fancy wanderThrough the thought still spread beyond her:Open wide the mind's cage-door,She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.O sweet Fancy! let her loose;Summer's joys are spoilt by use,And the enjoying of the SpringFades as does its blossoming;Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,Blushing through the mist and dew,Cloys with tasting: What do then?Sit thee by the ingle, whenThe sear faggot blazes bright,Spirit of a winter's night;When the soundless earth is muffled,And the cakéd snow is shuffledFrom the ploughboy's heavy shoon;When the Night doth meet the NoonIn a dark conspiracyTo banish Even from her sky.Sit thee there, and send abroad,With a mind self-overaw'd,Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!She has vassals to attend her:She will bring, in spite of frost,Beauties that the earth hath lost;She will bring thee, all together,All delights of summer weather;All the buds and bells of May,From dewy sward or thorny spray;All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,With a still, mysterious stealth:She will mix these pleasures upLike three fit wines in a cup,And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hearDistant harvest-carols clear;Rustle of the reapéd corn;Sweet birds antheming the morn:And, in the same moment—hark!'Tis the early April lark,Or the rooks, with busy caw,Foraging for sticks and straw.Thou shalt, at one glance, beholdThe daisy and the marigold;White-plumed lilies, and the firstHedge-grown primrose that hath burst;Shaded hyacinth, alwaySapphire queen of the mid-May;And every leaf, and every flowerPearléd with the self-same shower.Thou shalt see the field-mouse peepMeagre from its celléd sleep;And the snake all winter-thinCast on sunny bank its skin;Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt seeHatching in the hawthorn-tree,When the hen-bird's wing doth restQuiet on her mossy nest;Then the hurry and alarmWhen the bee-hive casts its swarm;Acorns ripe down-pattering,While the autumn breezes sing.
Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;Everything is spoilt by use:Where's the cheek that doth not fade,Too much gazed at? Where's the maidWhose lip mature is ever new?Where's the eye, however blue,Doth not weary? Where's the faceOne would meet in every place?Where's the voice, however soft,One would hear so very oft?At a touch sweet Pleasure meltethLike to bubbles when rain pelteth.Let then wingéd Fancy findThee a mistress to thy mind:Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,Ere the God of Torment taught herHow to frown and how to chide;With a waist and with a sideWhite as Hebe's, when her zoneSlipt its golden clasp, and downFell her kirtle to her feet,While she held the goblet sweet,And Jove grew languid.—Break the meshOf the Fancy's silken leash;Quickly break her prison-string,And such joys as these she'll bring.—Let the wingéd Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.
J. Keats
I heard a thousand blended notesWhile 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 grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;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 madeIt seem'd a thrill of pleasure.The budding twigs spread out their fanTo catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature's holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat Man has made of Man?
I heard a thousand blended notesWhile 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 grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;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 madeIt seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fanTo catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature's holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat Man has made of Man?
W. Wordsworth
When Ruth was left half desolateHer father took another mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughtless freedom, bold.And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the woods.Beneath her father's roof, aloneShe seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;Herself her own delight:Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;And passing thus the live-long day,She grew to woman's height.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:But no! he spake the English tongueAnd bore a soldier's name;And, when America was freeFrom battle and from jeopardy,He 'cross the ocean came.With hues of genius on his cheek,In finest tones the youth could speak:—While he was yet a 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 shade,Were perilous to hear.He told of girls, a happy rout!Who quit their fold with dance and shout,Their pleasant Indian town,To gather strawberries all day long;Returning with a choral songWhen daylight is gone down.He spake of plants that hourly changeTheir blossoms, through a boundless rangeOf intermingling hues;With budding, fading, faded flowers,They stand the wonder of the bowersFrom morn to evening dews.He told of the magnolia, spreadHigh as a cloud, high over head!The cypress and her spire;—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleamCover a hundred leagues, and seemTo set the hills on fire.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.'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it wereA fisher or a hunter there,In sunshine or in shadeTo wander with an easy mind,And build a household fire, and findA home in every glade!'What days and what bright 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 interwoveFond thoughts about a father's love,'For there,' said he, 'are spunAround the heart such tender ties,That 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 side,And drive the flying deer!'Beloved Ruth!'—No more he said,The wakeful Ruth 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 crestSo 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 foodFor 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 thought,The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,—Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;The breezes their own languor lent;The stars had feelings, which they sentInto those favour'd bowers.Yet, in his worst pursuits, I weenThat 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 lived, much evil saw,With men to whom no better lawNor better life was known;Deliberately and undeceivedThose wild men's vices he received,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-controlWould seek what the degraded soulUnworthily admires.And yet he with no feign'd delightHad woo'd the maiden, day and nightHad loved her, night and morn:What could he less than love a maidWhose heart with so much nature play'd—So kind and so forlorn?Sometimes most earnestly he said,'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;False thoughts, thoughts bold and vainEncompass'd me on every sideWhen I, in confidence and pride,Had cross'd the Atlantic main.'Before me shone a glorious worldFresh as a banner bright, unfurl'dTo music suddenly:I look'd upon those hills and plains,And seem'd as if let loose from chainsTo live at liberty!'No more of this—for now, by thee,Dear Ruth! more happily set free,With nobler zeal I burn;My soul from darkness is releasedLike the whole sky when to the eastThe morning doth return.'Full soon that better mind 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 prepared,And 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 housed;And there, with many a doleful songMade of wild words, her cup of wrongShe fearfully caroused.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 clear brook with cheerful knellDid o'er the pebbles play.When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,There came a respite to her pain;She from her prison fled;But of the Vagrant none took thought;And where it liked her best she soughtHer shelter and her bread.Among the fields she breathed again:The master-current of her brainRan permanent and free;And, coming to the banks of Tone,There did she rest; and dwell aloneUnder the greenwood tree.The engines of her pain, the toolsThat shaped 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.A barn her Winter bed supplies;But, till the warmth of Summer skiesAnd Summer days is gone,(And all do in this tale agree)She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,And other home hath none.An innocent life, yet far astray!And Ruth will, long before her day,Be broken down and old.Sore aches she needs must have! but lessOf mind, than body's wretchedness,From damp, and rain, and cold.If she is prest 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 stalk,At 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'd,—A young and happy child!Farewell! and when thy days are told,Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mouldThy corpse shall buried be;For thee a funeral bell shall ring,And all the congregation singA Christian psalm for thee.
When Ruth was left half desolateHer father took another mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughtless freedom, bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of winds and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the woods.
Beneath her father's roof, aloneShe seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;Herself her own delight:Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay;And passing thus the live-long day,She grew to woman's height.
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:But no! he spake the English tongueAnd bore a soldier's name;And, when America was freeFrom battle and from jeopardy,He 'cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek,In finest tones the youth could speak:—While he was yet a 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 shade,Were perilous to hear.
He told of girls, a happy rout!Who quit their fold with dance and shout,Their pleasant Indian town,To gather strawberries all day long;Returning with a choral songWhen daylight is gone down.
He spake of plants that hourly changeTheir blossoms, through a boundless rangeOf intermingling hues;With budding, fading, faded flowers,They stand the wonder of the bowersFrom morn to evening dews.
He told of the magnolia, spreadHigh as a cloud, high over head!The cypress and her spire;—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleamCover a hundred leagues, and seemTo set the hills on fire.
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.
'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it wereA fisher or a hunter there,In sunshine or in shadeTo wander with an easy mind,And build a household fire, and findA home in every glade!
'What days and what bright 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 interwoveFond thoughts about a father's love,'For there,' said he, 'are spunAround the heart such tender ties,That 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 side,And drive the flying deer!
'Beloved Ruth!'—No more he said,The wakeful Ruth 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 crestSo 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 foodFor 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 thought,The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,—Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;The breezes their own languor lent;The stars had feelings, which they sentInto those favour'd bowers.
Yet, in his worst pursuits, I weenThat 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 lived, much evil saw,With men to whom no better lawNor better life was known;Deliberately and undeceivedThose wild men's vices he received,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-controlWould seek what the degraded soulUnworthily admires.
And yet he with no feign'd delightHad woo'd the maiden, day and nightHad loved her, night and morn:What could he less than love a maidWhose heart with so much nature play'd—So kind and so forlorn?
Sometimes most earnestly he said,'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;False thoughts, thoughts bold and vainEncompass'd me on every sideWhen I, in confidence and pride,Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
'Before me shone a glorious worldFresh as a banner bright, unfurl'dTo music suddenly:I look'd upon those hills and plains,And seem'd as if let loose from chainsTo live at liberty!
'No more of this—for now, by thee,Dear Ruth! more happily set free,With nobler zeal I burn;My soul from darkness is releasedLike the whole sky when to the eastThe morning doth return.'
Full soon that better mind 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 prepared,And 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 housed;And there, with many a doleful songMade of wild words, her cup of wrongShe fearfully caroused.
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 clear brook with cheerful knellDid o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,There came a respite to her pain;She from her prison fled;But of the Vagrant none took thought;And where it liked her best she soughtHer shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breathed again:The master-current of her brainRan permanent and free;And, coming to the banks of Tone,There did she rest; and dwell aloneUnder the greenwood tree.
The engines of her pain, the toolsThat shaped 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.
A barn her Winter bed supplies;But, till the warmth of Summer skiesAnd Summer days is gone,(And all do in this tale agree)She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray!And Ruth will, long before her day,Be broken down and old.Sore aches she needs must have! but lessOf mind, than body's wretchedness,From damp, and rain, and cold.
If she is prest 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 stalk,At 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'd,—A young and happy child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told,Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mouldThy corpse shall buried be;For thee a funeral bell shall ring,And all the congregation singA Christian psalm for thee.
W. Wordsworth