Page
Expostulation and Reply - - - - - 1
The Tables turned ; an Evening Scene, on the
same subject . . . . . . 4
Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch . 7
The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman . 9
The Last of the Flock . . . . . 15
Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands
near the Lake of Esthwaite . . . 21
The Foster-Mother’s Tale . . . . 25
Goody Blake and Harry Gill . . . . 29
The Thorn . . . . . . . 38
We are Seven . . . . . . . 54
Anecdote for Fathers . . . . . 59
Lines written at a small distance from my House,
and sent by my little Boy to the Person to
whom they are addressed . . . . 64
The Female Vagrant . . . . . . 67
The Dungeon . . . . . . . 83
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman . . . . 85
Lines written in early Spring . . . . 92
The Nightingale, written in April, 1798. - - 94
Lines written when sailing in a Boat at Evening - 101
Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames 103
The Idiot Boy . . . . . . . . . . 107
Love . . . . . . . . 138
The Mad Mother . . . . . . 145
The Ancient Mariner - - - - - 155
Lines written above Tintern Abbey - - - 201

The first Volume of these Poems has already
been submitted to general perusal. It was
published, as an experiment which, I hoped,
might be of some use to ascertain, how far,
by fitting to metrical arrangement a selection
of the real language of men in a state of vivid
sensation, that sort of pleasure and that quantity
of pleasure may be imparted, which a Poet may
rationally endeavour to impart.

I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the
probable effect of those Poems : I flattered myself

that they who should be pleased with them would
read them with more than common pleasure : and
on the other hand I was well aware that by those
who should dislike them they would be read with
more than common dislike. The result has
differed from my expectation in this only, that I
have pleased a greater number, than I ventured
to hope I should please.

For the sake of variety and from a consciousness
of my own weakness I was induced to request
the assistance of a Friend, who furnished me
with the Poems of the Ancient Mariner, the
Foster-Mother’s Tale, the Nightingale,
the Dungeon, and the Poem entitled Love.
I should not, however, have requested this
assistance, had I not believed that the poems
of my Friend would in a great measure
have the same tendency as my own, and that,

though there would be found a difference, there
would be found no discordance in the colours of
our style ; as our opinions on the subject of poetry
do almost entirely coincide.

Several of my Friends are anxious for the success
of these Poems from a belief, that if the views,
with which they were composed, were indeed
realized, a class of Poetry would be produced,
well adapted to interest mankind permanently,
and not unimportant in the multiplicity and in the
quality of its moral relations : and on this account
they have advised me to prefix a systematic defence
of the theory, upon which the poems were written.
But I was unwilling to undertake the task, because
I knew that on this occasion the Reader would
look coldly upon my arguments, since I might
be suspected of having been principally influenced
by the selfish and foolish hope of reasoning him
into an approbation of these particular Poems :

and I was still more unwilling to undertake the
task, because adequately to display my opinions
and fully to enforce my arguments would require
a space wholly disproportionate to the nature of a
preface. For to treat the subject with the clear-
ness and coherence, of which I believe it ſuſcepti-
ble, it would be necessary to give a full account
of the present state of the public taste in this
country, and to determine how far this taste is
healthy or depraved ; which again could not be
determined, without pointing out, in what man-
ner language and the human mind act and react
on each other, and without retracing the revolu-
tions not of literature alone but likewise of society
itself. I have therefore altogether declined to
enter regularly upon this defence ; yet I am sensi-
ble, that there would be some impropriety in
abruptly obtruding upon the Public, without a
few words of introduction, Poems so materially
different from those, upon which general appro-
bation is at present bestowed.

It is supposed, that by the act of writing in verse
an Author makes a formal engagement that he
will gratify certain known habits of association,
that he not only thus apprizes the Reader that
certain classes of ideas and expressions will be
found in his book, but that others will be care-
fully excluded. This exponent or symbol held
forth by metrical language must in different æras
of literature have excited very different expecta-
tions : for example, in the age of Catullus Terence
and Lucretia, and that of Statius or Claudian,
and in our own country, in the age of Shakespeare
and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne
and Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not
take upon me to determine the exact import of
the promise which by the act of writing in verse
an Author in the present day makes to his Reader ;
but I am certain it will appear to many persons
that I have not fulfilled the terms of an engage-
ment thus voluntarily contracted. I hope there-

fore the Reader will not censure me, if I attempt
to state what I have proposed to myself to perform,
and also, (as far as the limits of a preface will
permit) to explain some of the chief reasons which
have determined me in the choice of my purpose :
that at least he may be spared any unpleasant
feeling of disappointment, and that I myself may
be protected from the most dishonorable accusa-
tion which can be brought against an Author,
namely, that of an indolence which prevents him
from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty,
or, when his duty is ascertained prevents him
from performing it.

The principal object then which I proposed to
myself in these Poems was to make the incidents
of common life interesting by tracing in them,
truly though not ostentatiously, the primary laws
of our nature : chiefly as far as regards the man-
ner in which we associate ideas in a state of

excitement. Low and rustic life was generally
chosen because in that situation the essential
passions of the heart find a better soil in which
they can attain their maturity, are less under
restraint, and speak a plainer and more emphatic
language ; because in that situation our elementary
feelings exist in a state of greater simplicity and
consequently may be more accurately contempla-
ted and more forcibly communicated ; because
the manners of rural life germinate from those
elementary feelings ; and from the necessary
character of rural occupations are more easily
comprehended ; and are more durable ; and lastly,
because in that situation the passions of men are
incorporated with the beautiful and permanent
forms of nature. The language too of these men
is adopted (purified indeed from what appear to
be its real defects, from all lasting and rational
causes of dislike or disgust) because such men
hourly communicate with the best objects from

which the best part of language is originally
derived ; and because, from their rank in society
and the sameness and narrow circle of their inter-
course, being less under the action of social vanity
they convey their feelings and notions in simple
and unelaborated expressions. Accordingly such
a language arising out of repeated experience and
regular feelings is a more permanent and a far
more philosophical language than that which is
frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think
that they are conferring honour upon themselves
and their art in proportion as they separate them-
selves from the sympathies of men, and indulge
in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression in
order to furnish food for fickle tastes and fickle
appetites of their own creation.** It is worth while here to observe that the affecting parts
of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure
and universally intelligible even to this day.

I cannot be insensible of the present outcry
against the triviality and meanness both of thought
and language, which some of my contemporaries
have occasionally introduced into their metrical
compositions ; and I acknowledge that this defect
where it exists, is more dishonorable to the Wri-
ter’s own character than false refinement or arbi-
trary innovation, though I should contend at the
same time that it is far less pernicious in the sum
of its consequences. From such verses the Poems
in these volumes will be found distinguished at
least by one mark of difference, that each of them
has a worthy purpose. Not that I mean to say,
that I always began to write with a distinct pur-
pose formally conceived ; but I believe that my
habits of meditation have so formed my feelings,
as that my descriptions of such objects as strongly
excite those feelings, will be found to carry along
with them a purpose. If in this opinion I am
mistaken I can have little right to the name of a

Poet. For all good poetry is the spontaneous
overflow of powerful feelings ; but though this be
true, Poems to which any value can be attached,
were never produced on any variety of subjects
but by a man who being possessed of more than
usual organic sensibility had also thought long
and deeply. For our continued influxes of feeling
are modified and directed by our thoughts, which
are indeed the representatives of all our past feel-
ings ; and as by contemplating the relation of
these general representatives to each other, we
discover what is really important to men, so by
the repetition and continuance of this act feelings
connected with important subjects will be nourish-
ed, till at length, if we be originally possessed of
much organic sensibility, such habits of mind
will be produced that by obeying blindly and me-
chanically the impulses of those habits we shall
describe objects and utter sentiments of such a
nature and in such connection with each other,

that the understanding of the being to whom we
address ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of
association, must necessarily be in some degree
enlightened, his taste exalted, and his affections
ameliorated.

I have said that each of these poems has a
purpose. I have also informed my Reader what
this purpose will be found principally to be :
namely to illustrate the manner in which our
feelings and ideas are associated in a state of
excitement. But speaking in less general lan-
guage, it is to follow the fluxes and refluxes of
the mind when agitated by the great and simple
affections of our nature. This object I have endea-
voured in these short essays to attain by various
means ; by tracing the maternal passion through
many of its more subtle windings, as in the poems
of the Idiot Boy and the Mad Mother ; by
accompanying the last struggles of a human being

at the approach of death, cleaving in solitude to
life and society, as in the Poem of the Forsaken
Indian ; by shewing, as in the Stanzas entitled
We are seven, the perplexity and obscurity
which in childhood attend our notion of death,
or rather our utter inability to admit that notion ;
or by displaying the strength of fraternal, or to
speak more philosophically, of moral attachment
when early associated with the great and beauti-
ful objects of nature, as in The Brothers ; or, as
in the Incident of Simon Lee, by placing my
Reader in the way of receiving from ordinary
moral sensations another and more salutary im-
pression than we are accustomed to receive from
them. It has also been part of my general pur-
pose to attempt to sketch characters under the
influence of less impassioned feelings, as in the
Old Man travelling, The two Thieves, &c.
characters of which the elements are simple, be-
longing rather to nature than to manners, such

as exist now and will probably always exist, and
which from their constitution may be distinctly
and profitably contemplated. I will not abuse
the indulgence of my Reader by dwelling longer
upon this subject ; but it is proper that I should
mention one other circumstance which distin-
guishes these Poems from the popular Poetry of
the day ; it is this, that the feeling therein deve-
loped gives importance to the action and situation
and not the action and situation to the feeling.
My meaning will be rendered perfectly intelligible
by referring my Reader to the Poems entitled Poor
Susan and the Childless Father, particularly
to the last Stanza of the latter Poem.

I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent
me from asserting, that I point my Reader’s atten-
tion to this mark of distinction far less for the
sake of these particular Poems than from the
general importance of the subject. The subject

is indeed important ! For the human mind is
capable of excitement without the application of
gross and violent stimulants ; and he must have
a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity
who does not know this, and who does not fur-
ther know that one being is elevated above
another in proportion as he possesses this capa-
bility. It has therefore appeared to me that to
endeavour to produce or enlarge this capability is
one of the best services in which, at any period,
a Writer can be engaged ; but this service, excel-
lent at all times, is especially so at the present day.
For a multitude of causes unknown to former
times are now acting with a combined force to
blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and
unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it
to a state of almost savage torpor. The most
effective of these causes are the great national
events which are daily taking place, and the en-
creasing accumulation of men in cities, where the

uniformity of their occupations produces a craving
for extraordinary incident which the rapid com-
munication of intelligence hourly gratifies. To
this tendency of life and manners the literature
and theatrical exhibitions of the country have
conformed themselves. The invaluable works of
our elder writers, I had almost said the works of
Shakespear and Milton, are driven into neglect
by frantic novels, sickly and stupid German Tra-
gedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant stories
in verse.—When I think upon this degrading
thirst after outrageous stimulation I am almost
ashamed to have spoken of the feeble effort with
which I have endeavoured to counteract it ; and
reflecting upon the magnitude of the general
evil, I should be oppressed with no dishonorable
melancholy, had I not a deep impression of certain
inherent and indestructible qualities of the human
mind, and likewise of certain powers in the great
and permanent objects that act upon it which are

equally inherent and indestructible ; and did I
not further add to this impression a belief that the
time is approaching when the evil will be syste-
matically opposed by men of greater powers and
with far more distinguished success.

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim
of these Poems, I shall request the Reader’s per-
mission to apprize him of a few circumſtances
relating to their style, in order, among other rea-
sons, that I may not be censured for not having
performed what I never attempted. Except in a
very few instances the Reader will find no personi-
fications of abstract ideas in these volumes, not
that I mean to censure such personifications :
they may be well fitted for certain sorts of com-
position, but in these Poems I propose to myself
to imitate, and, as far as is possible, to adopt the
very language of men, and I do not find that
such personifications make any regular or natural

part of that language. I wish to keep my Reader
in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that
by so doing I shall interest him. Not but that I
believe that others who pursue a different track
may interest him likewise : I do not interfere
with their claim, I only wish to prefer a different
claim of my own. There will also be found in
these volumes little of what is usually called
poetic diction ; I have taken as much pains to
avoid it as others ordinarily take to produce it ;
this I have done for the reason already alleged,
to bring my language near to the language of men,
and further, because the pleasure which I have
proposed to myself to impart is of a kind very
different from that which is supposed by many
persons to be the proper object of poetry. I do
not know how without being culpably particular
I can give my Reader a more exact notion of the
style in which I wished these poems to be writ-
ten than by informing him that I have at all times

endeavoured to look steadily at my subject, con-
sequently I hope it will be found that there is in
these Poems little falsehood of description, and that
my ideas are expressed in language fitted to their
respective importance. Something I must have
gained by this practice, as it is friendly to one
property of all good poetry, namely good sense ;
but it has necessarily cut me off from a large por-
tion of phrases and figures of speech which from
father to son have long been regarded as the
common inheritance of Poets. I have also thought
it expedient to restrict myself still further, having
abstained from the use of many expressions, in
themselves proper and beautiful, but which have
been foolishly repeated by bad Poets till such
feelings of disgust are connected with them as it
is scarcely possible by any art of association to
overpower.

If in a Poem there should be found a series of lines,

or even a single line, in which the language,
though naturally arranged and according to the
strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of
prose, there is a numerous class of critics who,
when they stumble upon these prosaisms as they
call them, imagine that they have made a notable
discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man
ignorant of his own profession. Now these men
would establish a canon of criticism which the
Reader will conclude he must utterly reject if he
wishes to be pleased with these volumes. And it
would be a most easy task to prove to him that
not only the language of a large portion of every
good poem, even of the most elevated character,
must necessarily, except with reference to the
metre, in no respect differ from that of good prose,
but likewise that some of the most interesting
parts of the best poems will be found to be
strictly the language of prose when prose is well
written. The truth of this assertion might be

demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost
all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself.
I have not space for much quotation ; but, to
illustrate the subject in a general manner, I will
here adduce a short composition of Gray, who
was at the head of those who by their reasonings
have attempted to widen the space of separation
betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was
more than any other man curiously elaborate in
the structure of his own poetic diction.
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire :The birds in vain their amorous descant join,Or chearful fields resume their green attire :These ears alas ! for other notes repine ;A different object do these eyes require ;My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ;And in my breast the imperfect joys expire ;Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ;The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ;To warm their little loves the birds complain.I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hearAnd weep the more because I weep in vain.

It will easily by perceived that the only part of
this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines
printed in Italics : it is equally obvious that except
in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word
“ fruitless ” for fruitlessly, which is so far a defect,
the language of these lines does in no respect
differ from that of prose.

Is there then, it will be asked, no essential dif-
ference between the language of prose and met-
rical composition ? I answer that there neither is
nor can be any essential difference. We are
fond of tracing the resemblance between Poetry
and Painting, and, accordingly, we call them
Sisters : but where shall we find bonds of con-
nection sufficiently strict to typify the affinity
betwixt metrical and prose composition ? They
both speak by and to the same organs ; the bodies
in which both of them are clothed may be said to
be of the same substance, their affections are

kindred and almost identical, not necessarily
differing even in degree ; *Poetry sheds no tears
“ such as Angels weep, ” but natural and human
tears ; she can boast of no celestial Ichor that
distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose ;
the same human blood circulates through the
veins of them both.

If it be affirmed that rhyme and metrical arrange-
ment of themselves constitute a distinction which
overturns what I have been saying on the strict
affinity of metrical language with that of prose,
and paves the way for other distinctions which* I here use the word “ Poetry ” (though against my own
judgment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonomous
with metrical composition. But much confusion has been
introduced into criticism by this contradistinction of Poetry
and Prose, instead of the more philosophical one of Poetry
and Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose is Metre.

the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that the
distinction of rhyme and metre is regular and uni-
form, and not, like that which is produced by
what is usually called poetic diction, arbitrary and
subject to infinite caprices upon which no calcula-
tion whatever can be made. In the one case the
Reader is utterly at the mercy of the Poet re-
ſpecting what imagery or diction he may choose
to connect with the passion, whereas in the other
the metre obeys certain laws, to which the Poet
and Reader both willingly submit because they
are certain, and because no interference is made
by them with the passion but such as the con-
curring testimony of ages has shewn to heighten
and improve the pleasure which co-exists with it.

It will now be proper to answer an obvious ques-
tion, namely, why, professing these opinions have
I written in verse ? To this in the first place I
reply, because, however I may have restricted

myself, there is still left open to me what con-
fessedly constitutes the most valuable object of
all writing whether in prose or verse, the great
and universal passions of men, the most general
and interesting of their occupations, and the entire
world of nature, from which I am at liberty to
supply myself with endless combinations of forms
and imagery. Now, granting for a moment that
whatever is interesting in these objects may be as
vividly described in prose, why am I to be con-
demned if to such description I have endeavoured
to superadd the charm which by the consent of
all nations is acknowledged to exist in metrical
language ? To this it will be answered, that a
very small part of the pleasure given by Poetry
depends upon the metre, and that it is injudicious
to write in metre unless it be accompanied with
the other artificial distinctions of style with which
metre is usually accompanied, and that by such
deviation more will be lost from the shock which

will be thereby given to the Reader’s associations
than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure
which he can derive from the general power of
numbers. In answer to those who thus contend
for the necessity of accompanying metre with
certain appropriate colours of style in order to the
accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who
also, in my opinion, greatly under-rate the power
of metre in itself, it might perhaps be almost
sufficient to observe that poems are extant, writ-
ten upon more humble subjects, and in a more
naked and simple style than what I have aimed at,
which poems have continued to give pleasure
from generation to generation. Now, if naked-
ness and simplicity be a defect, the fact here men-
tioned affords a strong presumption that poems
somewhat less naked and simple are capable of
affording pleasure at the present day ; and all
that I am now attempting is to justify myself for
having written under the impression of this
belief.

But I might point out various causes why, when
the style is manly, and the subject of some im-
portance, words metrically arranged will long con-
tinue to impart such a pleasure to mankind as he
who is sensible of the extent of that pleasure will
be desirous to impart. The end of Poetry is to
produce excitement in coexistence with an over-
balance of pleasure. Now, by the supposition,
excitement is an unusual and irregular state of
the mind ; ideas and feelings do not in that state
succeed each other in accustomed order. But if
the words by which this excitement is produced
are in themselves powerful, or the images and
feelings have an undue proportion of pain con-
nected with them, there is some danger that the
excitement may be carried beyond its proper
bounds. Now the co-presence of something
regular, something to which the mind has been
accustomed when in an unexcited or a less excited
state, cannot but have great efficacy in tempering

and restraining the passion by an intertexture of
ordinary feeling. This may be illustrated by appeal-
ing to the Reader’s own experience of the reluctance
with which he comes to the re-perusal of the dis-
tressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or the Gamester.
While Shakespeare’s writings, in the most pathetic
scenes, never act upon us as pathetic beyond the
bounds of pleasure—an effect which is in a great de-
gree to be ascribed to small, but continual and regu-
lar impulses of pleasurable surprise from the metrical
arrangement.—On the other hand (what it must
be allowed will much more frequently happen)
if the Poet’s words should be incommensurate
with the passion, and inadequate to raise the
Reader to a height of desirable excitement, then,
(unless the Poet’s choice of his metre has been
grossly injudicious) in the feelings of pleasure
which the Reader has been accustomed to con-
nect with metre in general, and in the feeling,
whether chearful or melancholy, which he has

been accustomed to connect with that particular
movement of metre, there will be found some-
thing which will greatly contribute to impart
passion to the words, and to effect the complex
end which the Poet proposes to himself.

If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the
theory upon which these poems are written, it
would have been my duty to develope the various
causes upon which the pleasure received from
metrical language depends. Among the chief of
these causes is to be reckoned a principle which
must be well known to those who have made any
of the Arts the object of accurate reflection ; I
mean the pleasure which the mind derives from
the perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This
principle is the great spring of the activity of our
minds and their chief feeder. From this princi-
ple the direction of the sexual appetite, and all
the passions connected with it take their origin :

It is the life of our ordinary conversation ; and
upon the accuracy with which similitude in
dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude are
perceived, depend our taste and our moral feel-
ings. It would not have been a useless employ-
ment to have applied this principle to the con-
sideration of metre, and to have shewn that metre
is hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and
to have pointed out in what manner that pleasure
is produced. But my limits will not permit me to
enter upon this subject, and I must content my-
self with a general summary.

I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow
of powerful feelings : it takes its origin from emo-
tion recollected in tranquillity : the emotion is
contemplated till by a species of reaction the
tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion,
similar to that which was before the subject of
contemplation, is gradually produced, and does

itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood
successful composition generally begins, and in a
mood similar to this it is carried on ; but the
emotion, of whatever kind and in whatever de-
gree, from various causes is qualified by various
pleasures, so that in describing any passions what-
soever, which are voluntarily described, the mind
will upon the whole be in a state of enjoyment.
Now if Nature be thus cautious in preserving in
a state of enjoyment a being thus employed,
the Poet ought to profit by the lesson thus held
forth to him, and ought especially to take care,
that whatever passions he communicates to his
Reader, those passions, if his Reader’s mind be
sound and vigorous, should always be accompa-
nied with an overbalance of pleasure. Now the
music of harmonious metrical language, the sense
of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of
pleasure which has been previously received from
works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar

construction, all these imperceptibly make up a
complex feeling of delight, which is of the most
important use in tempering the painful feeling
which will always be found intermingled with
powerful descriptions of the deeper passions.
This effect is always produced in pathetic and
impassioned poetry ; while in lighter composi-
tions the ease and gracefulness with which the
Poet manages his numbers are themselves con-
fessedly a principal source of the gratification of
the Reader. I might perhaps include all which
it is necessary to say upon this subject by affirming
what few persons will deny, that of two descrip-
tions either of passions, manners, or characters,
each of them equally well executed, the one in
prose and the other in verse, the verse will be
read a hundred times where the prose is read
once. We see that Pope by the power of verse
alone, has contrived to render the plainest com-
mon sense interesting, and even frequently to

invest it with the appearance of passion. In con-
sequence of these convictions I related in metre
the Tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill,
which is one of the rudest of this collection. I
wished to draw attention to the truth that the
power of the human imagination is sufficient to
produce such changes even in our physical nature
as might almost appear miraculous. The truth is
an important one ; the fact (for it is a fact) is a
valuable illustration of it. And I have the satis-
faction of knowing that it has been communicated
to many hundreds of people who would never
have heard of it, had it not been narrated as a
Ballad, and in a more impressive metre than is
usual in Ballads.

Having thus adverted to a few of the reasons why
I have written in verse, and why I have chosen
subjects from common life, and endeavoured to
bring my language near to the real language of

men, if I have been too minute in pleading my
own cause, I have at the same time been treat-
ing a subject of general interest ; and it is for this
reason that I request the Reader’s permission to
add a few words with reference solely to these
particular poems, and to some defects which will
probably be found in them. I am sensible that
my associations must have sometimes been par-
ticular instead of general, and that, consequently,
giving to things a false importance, sometimes
from diseased impulses I may have written upon
unworthy subjects ; but I am less apprehensive
on this account, than that my language may fre-
quently have suffered from those arbitrary con-
nections of feelings and ideas with particular
words, from which no man can altogether protect
himself. Hence I have no doubt that in some
instances feelings even of the ludicrous may be
given to my Readers by expressions which ap-
peared to me tender and pathetic. Such faulty

expressions, were I convinced they were faulty
at present, and that they must necessarily con-
tinue to be so, I would willingly take all rea-
sonable pains to correct. But it is dangerous to
make these alterations on the simple authority of
a few individuals, or even of certain classes of
men ; for where the understanding of an Author
is not convinced, or his feelings altered, this
cannot be done without great injury to himself :
for his own feelings are his stay and support, and
if he sets them aside in one instance, he may be
induced to repeat this act till his mind loses all
confidence in itself and becomes utterly debilitated.
To this it may be added, that the Reader ought
never to forget that he is himself exposed to the
same errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much
greater degree : for there can be no presumption
in saying that it is not probable he will be so well
acquainted with the various stages of meaning
through which words have passed, or with the

fickleness or stability of the relations of particular
ideas to each other ; and above all, since he is
so much less interested in the subject, he may
decide lightly and carelessly.

Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he
will permit me to caution him against a mode of
false criticism which has been applied to Poetry
in which the language closely resembles that of
life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed
over in parodies of which Dr. Johnson’s Stanza is
a fair specimen.
“ I put my hat upon my head,And walk’d into the Strand,And there I met another manWhose hat was in his hand. ”

Immediately under these lines I will place one
of the most justly admired stanzas of the “ Babes
in the Wood. ”

“ These pretty Babes with hand in handWent wandering up and down ;But never more they saw the ManApproaching from the Town. ”

In both of these stanzas the words, and the order
of the words, in no respect differ from the most
unimpassioned conversation. There are words in
both, for example, “ the Strand, ” and “ the Town, ”
connected with none but the most familiar ideas ;
yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, and
the other as a fair example of the superlatively
contemptible. Whence arises this difference ?
Not from the metre, not from the language, not
from the order of the words ; but the matter
expressed in Dr. Johnson’s stanza is contemptible.
The proper method of treating trivial and simple
verses to which Dr. Johnson’s stanza would be a
fair parallelism is not to say this is a bad kind of
poetry, or this is not poetry, but this wants sense ;
it is neither interesting in itself, nor can lead to

any thing interesting ; the images neither origi-
nate in that sane state of feeling which arises out
of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in
the Reader. This is the only sensible manner of
dealing with such verses : Why trouble yourself
about the species till you have previously decided
upon the genus ? Why take pains to prove that
an Ape is not a Newton when it is self-evident
that he is not a man.

I have one request to make of my Reader, which
is, that in judging these Poems he would decide
by his own feelings genuinely, and not by reflec-
tion upon what will probably be the judgment of
others. How common is it to hear a person say,
“ I myself do not object to this style of composi-
tion or this or that expression, but to such and
such classes of people it will appear mean or
ludicrous. ” This mode of criticism so destructive
of all sound unadulterated judgment is almost

universal : I have therefore to request that the
Reader would abide independently by his own
feelings, and that if he finds himself affected he
would not suffer such conjectures to interfere
with his pleasure.

If an Author by any single composition has im-
pressed us with respect for his talents, it is useful
to consider this as affording a presumption, that,
on other occasions where we have been displeased,
he nevertheless may not have written ill or ab-
surdly ; and, further, to give him so much credit
for this one composition as may induce us to
review what has displeased us with more care
than we should otherwise have bestowed upon it.
This is not only an act of justice, but in our deci-
sions upon poetry especially, may conduce in a
high degree to the improvement of our own taste :
for an accurate taste in Poetry and in all the other
arts, as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an

acquired talent, which can only be produced by
thought and a long continued intercourse with
the best models of composition. This is men-
tioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to pre-
vent the most inexperienced Reader from judging
for himself, (I have already said that I wish him
to judge for himself ;) but merely to temper the
rashness of decision, and to suggest that if
Poetry be a subject on which much time has
not been bestowed, the judgment may be
erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily
will be so.

I know that nothing would have so effectually
contributed to further the end which I have in
view as to have shewn of what kind the pleasure
is, and how the pleasure is produced which is
confessedly produced by metrical composition
essentially different from what I have here en-
deavoured to recommend ; for the Reader will

say that he has been pleased by such composition
and what can I do more for him ? The power of
any art is limited and he will suspect that if I pro-
pose to furnish him with new friends it is only
upon condition of his abandoning his old friends.
Besides, as I have said, the Reader is himself
conscious of the pleasure which he has received
from such composition, composition to which he
has peculiarly attached the endearing name of
Poetry ; and all men feel an habitual gratitude,
and something of an honorable bigotry for the
objects which have long continued to please them :
we not only wish to be pleased, but to be pleased
in that particular way in which we have been
accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of
arguments in these feelings ; and I should be the
less able to combat them successfully, as I am
willing to allow, that, in order entirely to enjoy
the Poetry which I am recommending, it would
be necessary to give up much of what is ordinarily

enjoyed. But would my limits have permitted
me to point out how this pleasure is produced, I
might have removed many obstacles, and assisted
my Reader in perceiving that the powers of lan-
guage are not so limited as he may suppose ; and
that it is possible that poetry may give other
enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and more
exquisite nature. But this part of my subject I
have been obliged altogether to omit : as it has
been less my present aim to prove that the interest
excited by some other kinds of poetry is less
vivid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the
mind, than to offer reasons for presuming, that,
if the object which I have proposed to myself
were adequately attained, a species of poetry
would be produced, which is genuine poetry ;
in its nature well adapted to interest man-
kind permanently, and likewise important in
the multiplicity and quality of its moral rela-
tions.

From what has been said, and from a perusal of
the Poems, the Reader will be able clearly to
perceive the object which I have proposed to
myself : he will determine how far I have attained
this object ; and, what is a much more important
question, whether it be worth attaining ; and
upon the decision of these two questions will rest
my claim to the approbation of the public.

“ Why, William, on that old grey stone, 1“ Thus for the length of half a day, 2“ Why, William, sit you thus alone, 3“ And dream your time away ? 4

“ Where are your books ? that light bequeath’d5“ To beings else forlorn and blind ! 6“ Up ! Up ! and drink the spirit breath’d 7“ From dead men to their kind. 8

“ You look round on your mother earth, 9“ As if she for no purpose bore you ; 10“ As if you were her first-born birth, 11“ And none had lived before you ! ”12

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 13When life was sweet, I knew not why, 14To me my good friend Matthew spake, 15And thus I made reply. 16

“ The eye it cannot chuse but see, 17“ We cannot bid the ear be still ; 18“ Our bodies feel, where’er they be, 19“ Against, or with our will.20

“ Nor less I deem that there are powers21“ Which of themselves our minds impress, 22“ That we can feed this mind of ours23“ In a wise passiveness.24

“ Think you, mid all this mighty sum 25“ Of things for ever speaking, 26“ That nothing of itself will come, 27“ But we must still be seeking ? 28

“ —Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 29“ Conversing as I may, 30“ I sit upon this old grey stone, 31“ And dream my time away. ”32

Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks, 1Why all this toil and trouble ? 2Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books, 3Or surely you’ll grow double. 4

The sun, above the mountain’s head, 5A freshening lustre mellow 6Through all the long green fields has spread,7His first sweet evening yellow. 8

Books ! ’tis a dull and endless strife, 9Come, here the woodland linnet, 10How sweet his music ; on my life 11There’s more of wisdom in it. 12

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings !13And he is no mean preacher ;14Come forth into the light of things, 15Let Nature be your teacher.16

She has a world of ready wealth,17Our minds and hearts to bless—18Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 19Truth breathed by chearfulness. 20

One impulse from a vernal wood 21May teach you more of man ;22Of moral evil and of good, 23Than all the sages can.24

Sweet is the lore which nature brings ; 25Our meddling intellect 26Mishapes the beauteous forms of things ; 27—We murder to dissect. 28

Enough of science and of art ; 29Close up these barren leaves ; 30Come forth, and bring with you a heart 31That watches and receives.32

The little hedge-row birds1That peck along the road, regard him not. 2He travels on, and in his face, his step, 3His gait, is one expression ; every limb, 4His look and bending figure, all bespeak 5A man who does not move with pain, but moves6With thought—He is insensibly subdued7To settled quiet : he is one by whom 8All effort seems forgotten, one to whom 9Long patience has such mild composure given,10That patience now doth seem a thing, of which 11He hath no need. He is by nature led 12

To peace so perfect, that the young behold 13With envy, what the old man hardly feels.14—I asked him whither he was bound, and what 15The object of his journey ; he replied 16That he was going many miles to take 17A last leave of his son, a mariner, 18Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth, 19And there was lying in an hospital.20

Before I see another day, 1Oh let my body die away ! 2In sleep I heard the northern gleams ; 3The stars they were among my dreams ; 4In sleep did I behold the skies, 5I saw the crackling flashes drive ;6And yet they are upon my eyes, 7And yet I am alive.8Before I see another day, 9Oh let my body die away ! 10

My fire is dead : it knew no pain ; 11Yet it is dead, and I remain. 12All stiff with ice the ashes lie ; 13And they are dead, and I will die. 14When I was well, I wished to live,15For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire ;16But they to me no joy can give, 17No pleasure now, and no desire. 18Then here contented will I lie ; 19Alone I cannot fear to die. 20

Alas ! you might have dragged me on21Another day, a single one ! 22Too soon despair o’er me prevailed ;23Too soon my heartless spirit failed ; 24When you were gone my limbs were stronger,25And Oh how grievously I rue,26That, afterwards, a little longer,27My friends, I did not follow you ! 28For strong and without pain I lay, 29My friends, when you were gone away.30

My child ! they gave thee to another,31A woman who was not thy mother. 32When from my arms my babe they took, 33On me how strangely did he look ! 34Through his whole body something ran,35A most strange something did I see ;36—As if he strove to be a man, 37That he might pull the sledge for me.38And then he stretched his arms, how wild !39Oh mercy ! like a little child. 40

My little joy ! my little pride ! 41In two days more I must have died. 42Then do not weep and grieve for me ; 43I feel I must have died with thee. 44Oh wind that o’er my head art flying, 45The way my friends their course did bend,46I should not feel the pain of dying,47Could I with thee a message send.48Too soon, my friends, you went away ;49For I had many things to say.50

I’ll follow you across the snow,51You travel heavily and slow : 52In spite of all my weary pain, 53I’ll look upon your tents again. 54My fire is dead, and snowy white 55The water which beside it stood ; 56The wolf has come to me to-night,57And he has stolen away my food. 58For ever left alone am I, 59Then wherefore should I fear to die ? 60

My journey will be shortly run, 61I shall not see another sun, 62I cannot lift my limbs to know 63If they have any life or no. 64My poor forsaken child ! if I 65For once could have thee close to me, 66With happy heart I then should die, 67And my last thoughts would happy be. 68I feel my body die away, 69I shall not see another day.70

In distant countries I have been, 1And yet I have not often seen 2A healthy man, a man full grown, 3Weep in the public roads alone. 4But such a one, on English ground, 5And in the broad high-way, I met ; 6Along the broad high-way he came, 7His cheeks with tears were wet. 8Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad ; 9And in his arms a lamb he had. 10

He saw me, and he turned aside, 11As if he wished himself to hide : 12Then with his coat he made essay 13To wipe those briny tears away. 14I follow’d him, and said, “ My friend 15“ What ails you ? wherefore weep you so ? ”16—“ Shame on me, Sir ! this lusty lamb, 17He makes my tears to flow. 18To-day I fetched him from the rock ; 19He is the last of all my flock.20

When I was young, a single man, 21And after youthful follies ran, 22Though little given to care and thought, 23Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought ; 24And other sheep from her I raised, 25As healthy sheep as you might see, 26And then I married, and was rich 27As I could wish to be ; 28Of sheep I numbered a full score, 29And every year increas’d my store. 30

Year after year my stock it grew, 31And from this one, this single ewe, 32Full fifty comely sheep I raised, 33As sweet a flock as ever grazed !34Upon the mountain did they feed ; 35They throve, and we at home did thrive. 36—This lusty lamb of all my store 37Is all that is alive ; 38And now I care not if we die, 39And perish all of poverty.40

Six children, Sir ! had I to feed, 41Hard labour in a time of need ! 42My pride was tamed, and in our grief, 43I of the parish ask’d relief. 44They said I was a wealthy man ; 45My sheep upon the mountain fed, 46And it was fit that thence I took 47Whereof to buy us bread : ”48“ Do this ; how can we give to you, ”49They cried, “ what to the poor is due ? ”50

I sold a sheep as they had said, 51And bought my little children bread, 52And they were healthy with their food ; 53For me it never did me good. 54A woeful time it was for me, 55To see the end of all my gains, 56The pretty flock which I had reared 57With all my care and pains, 58To see it melt like snow away ! 59For me it was woeful day. 60

Another still ! and still another ! 61A little lamb, and then its mother ! 62It was a vein that never stopp’d, 63Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d.64Till thirty were not left alive 65They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 66And I may say that many a time 67I wished they all were gone : 68They dwindled one by one away ; 69For me it was a woeful day. 70

To wicked deeds I was inclined, 71And wicked fancies cross’d my mind, 72And every man I chanc’d to see, 73I thought he knew some ill of me. 74No peace, no comfort could I find, 75No ease, within doors or without, 76And crazily, and wearily, 77I went my work about. 78Oft-times I thought to run away ; 79For me it was a woeful day. 80

Sir ! ’twas a precious flock to me,81As dear as my own children be ; 82For daily with my growing store 83I loved my children more and more. 84Alas ! it was an evil time ; 85God cursed me in my sore distress, 86I prayed, yet every day I thought 87I loved my children less ; 88And every week, and every day, 89My flock, it seemed to melt away. 90

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see !91From ten to five, from five to three, 92A lamb, a weather, and a ewe ; 93And then at last, from three to two ; 94And of my fifty, yesterday 95I had but only one, 96And here it lies upon my arm, 97Alas ! and I have none ; 98To-day I fetched it from the rock ; 99It is the last of all my flock. ”100

—Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands1Far from all human dwelling : what if here2No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ;3What if these barren boughs the bee not loves ;4Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,5That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind6By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.7

————————Who he was 8That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod9First covered o’er and taught this aged tree10With its dark arms to form a circling bower,1122I well remember.—He was one who owned12No common soul. In youth by science nursed 13And led by nature into a wild scene14Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth,15A favored being, knowing no desire 16Which genius did not hallow, ’gainst the taint17Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate18And scorn, against all enemies prepared, 19All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,20Owed him no service : he was like a plant21Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,22But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,23Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,24With indignation did he turn away 25And with the food of pride sustained his soul 26In solitude.—Stranger ! these gloomy boughs 27Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 28His only visitants a straggling sheep, 29The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper ; 30And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 31And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er, 3223Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 33A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here34An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 35And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 36On the more distant scene ; how lovely ’tis37Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became 38Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 39The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time40When Nature had subdued him to herself41Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,42Warm from the labours of benevolence, 43The world, and man himself, appeared a scene 44Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh 45With mournful joy, to think that others felt 46What he must never feel : and so, lost man ! 47On visionary views would fancy feed, 48Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale49He died, this seat his only monument. 50

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms51Of young imagination have kept pure,5224Stranger ! henceforth be warned ; and know, that pride,46Howe’er disguised in its own majesty, 53Is littleness ; that he, who feels contempt 54For any living thing, hath faculties 55Which he has never used ; that thought with him56Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye 57Is ever on himself, doth look on one, 58The least of nature’s works, one who might move 59The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 60Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou ! 61Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, 62True dignity abides with him alone 63Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 64Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 65In lowliness of heart.66

But that entrance, Mother !1

FOSTER-MOTHER.Can no one hear ? It is a perilous tale !2

MARIA.No one.3

FOSTER-MOTHER. My husband’s father told it me,4Poor old Leoni !—Angels rest his soul !5He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 6With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 7Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ?826

Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree 9He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 10With thistle beards, and such small locks of wool 11As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,12And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. 13And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 14A pretty boy, but most unteachable—15And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 16But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,17And whistled, as he were a bird himself : 18And all the autumn ’twas his only play19To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them20With earth and water, on the stumps of trees.21A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 22A grey-haired man—he loved this little boy,23The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him,24He soon could write with the pen : and from that time,25Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.26So he became a very learned youth. 27But Oh ! poor wretch !—he read, and read, and read,28’Till his brain turned—and ere his twentieth year,2927

He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 30And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 31With holy men, nor in a holy place—32But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 33The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him. 34And once, as by the north side of the Chapel 35They stood together, chained in deep discourse, 36The earth heaved under them with such a groan, 37That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen 38Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ;39A fever seized him, and he made confession 40Of all the heretical and lawless talk 41Which brought this judgment : so the youth was seized42And cast into that cell. My husband’s father 43Sobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart : 44And once as he was working in the cellar,45He heard a voice distinctly ; ’twas the youth’s46Who sang a doleful song about green fields, 47How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,48To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 49And wander up and down at liberty.5028

Leoni doted on the youth, and now 51His love grew desperate ; and defying death, 52He made that cunning entrance I described : 53And the young man escaped. 54

MARIA. ’Tis a sweet tale.And what became of him ?55

FOSTER-MOTHER. He went on ship-boardWith those bold voyagers, who made discovery 56Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother 57Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 58He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 59Soon after they arrived in that new world, 60In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 61And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight 62Up a great river, great as any sea, 63And ne’er was heard of more : but ’tis supposed,64He lived and died among the savage men.65

Oh ! what’s the matter ? what’s the matter ? 1What is’t that ails young Harry Gill ? 2That evermore his teeth they chatter, 3Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 4Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ;6He has a blanket on his back, 7And coats enough to smother nine. 8

In March, December, and in July, 9’Tis all the same with Harry Gill ; 10The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, 11His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 12At night, at morning, and at noon, 13’Tis all the same with Harry Gill ;14Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 16

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 17And who so stout of limb as he ? 18His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 19His voice was like the voice of three. 20Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,21Ill fed she was, and thinly clad ;22And any man who pass’d her door, 23Might see how poor a hut she had. 24

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 25And then her three hours’ work at night !26Alas ! ’twas hardly worth the telling,27It would not pay for candle-light. 28—This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, 29Her hut was on a cold hill-side, 30And in that country coals are dear, 31For they come far by wind and tide. 32

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 33Two poor old dames as I have known, 34Will often live in one small cottage, 35But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 36’Twas well enough when summer came,37The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 38Then at her door the canty dame 39Would sit, as any linnet gay. 40

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 41Oh ! then how her old bones would shake ! 42You would have said, if you had met her,43’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.44Her evenings then were dull and dead ; 45Sad case it was, as you may think, 46For very cold to go to bed, 47And then for cold not sleep a wink. 48

Oh joy for her ! whene’er in winter 49The winds at night had made a rout, 50And scatter’d many a lusty splinter, 51And many a rotten bough about. 52Yet never had she, well or sick, 53As every man who knew her says, 54A pile before hand, wood or stick, 55Enough to warm her for three days. 56

Now when the frost was past enduring,57And made her poor old bones to ache, 58Could any thing be more alluring, 59Than an old hedge to Goody Blake ? 60And now and then, it must be said, 61When her old bones were cold and chill, 62She left her fire, or left her bed, 63To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.64

Now Harry he had long suspected 65This trespass of old Goody Blake, 66And vow’d that she should be detected, 67And he on her would vengeance take. 68And oft from his warm fire he’d go, 69And to the fields his road would take, 70And there, at night, in frost and snow, 71He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.72

And once, behind a rick of barley, 73Thus looking out did Harry stand ; 74The moon was full and shining clearly, 75And crisp with frost the stubble land.76—He hears a noise—he’s all awake— 77Again ?—on tip-toe down the hill 78He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake, 79She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill. 80

Right glad was he when he beheld her ; 81Stick after stick did Goody pull, 82He stood behind a bush of elder, 83Till she had filled her apron full. 84When with her load she turned about, 85The bye-road back again to take, 86He started forward with a shout, 87And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 88

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 89And by the arm he held her fast, 90And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 91And cried, “ I’ve caught you then at last ! ”92Then Goody, who had nothing said, 93Her bundle from her lap let fall ; 94And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d 95To God that is the judge of all. 96

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing, 97While Harry held her by the arm— 98“ God ! who art never out of hearing, 99“ O may he never more be warm ! ”100The cold, cold moon above her head, 101Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 102Young Harry heard what she had said, 103And icy-cold he turned away. 104

He went complaining all the morrow 105That he was cold and very chill : 106His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,107Alas ! that day for Harry Gill ! 108That day he wore a riding-coat, 109But not a whit the warmer he : 110Another was on Thursday brought, 111And ere the Sabbath he had three. 112

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,113And blankets were about him pinn’d ; 114Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115Like a loose casement in the wind. 116And Harry’s flesh it fell away ; 117And all who see him say ’tis plain,118That, live as long as live he may, 119He never will be warm again. 120

No word to any man he utters, 121A-bed or up, to young or old ; 122But ever to himself he mutters, 123“ Poor Harry Gill is very cold. ”124A-bed or up, by night or day ; 125His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 126Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 127Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.128

I.There is a thorn ; it looks so old,1In truth you’d find it hard to say,2How it could ever have been young,3It looks so old and grey.4Not higher than a two years’ child5It stands erect this aged thorn ;6No leaves it has, no thorny points ;7It is a mass of knotted joints,8A wretched thing forlorn.9It stands erect, and like a stone10With lichens it is overgrown.11

II.Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown12With lichens to the very top,13And hung with heavy tufts of moss,14A melancholy crop :15Up from the earth these mosses creep,16And this poor thorn they clasp it round17So close, you’d say that they were bent18With plain and manifest intent,19To drag it to the ground ;20And all had join’d in one endeavour21To bury this poor thorn for ever.22

III.High on a mountain’s highest ridge,23Where oft the stormy winter gale24Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds25It sweeps from vale to vale ;26Not five yards from the mountain-path,2740This thorn you on your left espy ;28And to the left, three yards beyond,29You see a little muddy pond30Of water, never dry ;31I’ve measured it from side to side :32’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.33

IV.And close beside this aged thorn,34There is a fresh and lovely sight,35A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,36Just half a foot in height.37All lovely colours there you see,38All colours that were ever seen,39And mossy network too is there,40As if by hand of lady fair41The work had woven been,42And cups, the darlings of the eye,43So deep is their vermilion dye.44

V.Ah me ! what lovely tints are there !45Of olive green and scarlet bright,46In spikes, in branches, and in stars,47Green, red, and pearly white.48This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,49Which close beside the thorn you see,50So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,51Is like an infant’s grave in size52As like as like can be :53But never, never any where,54An infant’s grave was half so fair.55

VI.Now would you see this aged thorn,56This pond and beauteous hill of moss,57You must take care and chuse your time58The mountain when to cross.59For oft there sits, between the heap6042That’s like an infant’s grave in size61And that same pond of which I spoke,62A woman in a scarlet cloak,63And to herself she cries,64“ Oh misery ! oh misery !65“ Oh woe is me ! oh misery ! ”66

VII.At all times of the day and night67This wretched woman thither goes,68And she is known to every star,69And every wind that blows ;70And there beside the thorn she sits71When the blue day-light’s in the skies,72And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,73Or frosty air is keen and still,74And to herself she cries,75“ Oh misery ! oh misery !76“ Oh woe is me ! oh misery ; ”77

VIII.“ Now wherefore thus, by day and night,78“ In rain, in tempest, and in snow79“ Thus to the dreary mountain-top80“ Does this poor woman go ?81“ And why sits she beside the thorn82“ When the blue day-light’s in the sky,83“ Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,84“ Or frosty air is keen and still,85“ And wherefore does she cry ?—86“ Oh wherefore ? wherefore ? tell me why87“ Does she repeat that doleful cry ? ”88

IX.I cannot tell ; I wish I could ;89For the true reason no one knows,90But if you’d gladly view the spot,91The spot to which she goes ;92The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,9344The pond—and thorn, so old and grey,94Pass by her door—tis seldom shut—95And if you see her in her hut,96Then to the spot away !—97I never heard of such as dare98Approach the spot when she is there.99

X.“ But wherefore to the mountain-top,100“ Can this unhappy woman go,101“ Whatever star is in the skies,102“ Whatever wind may blow ? ”103Nay rack your brain—’tis all in vain,104I’ll tell you every thing I know ;105But to the thorn and to the pond106Which is a little step beyond,107I wish that you would go :108Perhaps when you are at the place109You something of her tale may trace.110

XI.I’ll give you the best help I can :111Before you up the mountain go,112Up to the dreary mountain-top,113I’ll tell you all I know.114’Tis now some two and twenty years,115Since she (her name is Martha Ray)116Gave with a maiden’s true good will117Her company to Stephen Hill ;118And she was blithe and gay,119And she was happy, happy still120Whene’er she thought of Stephen Hill.121

XII.And they had fix’d the wedding-day,122The morning that must wed them both ;123But Stephen to another maid124Had sworn another oath ;125And with this other maid to church12646Unthinking Stephen went—127Poor Martha ! on that woful day128A cruel, cruel fire, they say,129Into her bones was sent :130It dried her body like a cinder,131And almost turn’d her brain to tinder.132

XIII.They say, full six months after this,133While yet the summer leaves were green,134She to the mountain-top would go,135And there was often seen.136’Tis said, a child was in her womb,137As now to any eye was plain ;138She was with child, and she was mad,139Yet often she was sober sad140From her exceeding pain.141Oh me ! ten thousand times I’d rather142That he had died, that cruel father !143

XIV.Sad case for such a brain to hold144Communion with a stirring child !145Sad case, as you may think, for one146Who had a brain so wild !147Last Christmas when we talked of this,148Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,149That in her womb the infant wrought150About its mother’s heart, and brought151Her senses back again :152And when at last her time drew near,153Her looks were calm, her senses clear.154

XV.No more I know, I wish I did,155And I would tell it all to you ;156For what became of this poor child157There’s none that ever knew :158And if a child was born or no,15948There’s no one that could ever tell160And if ’twas born alive or dead,161There’s no one knows, as I have said,162But some remember well,163That Martha Ray about this time164Would up the mountain often climb.165

XVI.And all that winter, when at night166The wind blew from the mountain-peak,167’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,168The church-yard path to seek :169For many a time and oft were heard170Cries coming from the mountain-head,171Some plainly living voices were,172And others, I’ve heard many swear,173Were voices of the dead :174I cannot think, whate’er they say,175They had to do with Martha Ray.176

XVII.But that she goes to this old thorn,177The thorn which I’ve described to you,178And there sits in a scarlet cloak,179I will be sworn is true.180For one day with my telescope,181To view the ocean wide and bright,182When to this country first I came,183Ere I had heard of Martha’s name,184I climbed the mountain’s height :185A storm came on, and I could see186No object higher than my knee.187

XVIII.’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,188No screen, no fence could I discover,189And then the wind ! in faith, it was190A wind full ten times over.191I looked around, I thought I saw19250A jutting crag, and off I ran,193Head-foremost, through the driving rain,194The shelter of the crag to gain,195And, as I am a man,196Instead of jutting crag, I found197A woman seated on the ground.198

XIX.I did not speak—I saw her face,199In truth it was enough for me ;200I turned about and heard her cry,201“ O misery ! O misery ! ”202And there she sits, until the moon203Through half the clear blue sky will go,204And when the little breezes make205The waters of the pond to shake,206As all the country know,207She shudders, and you hear her cry,208“ Oh misery ! oh misery !209

XX.“ But what’s the thorn ? and what’s the pond ?210“ And what’s the hill of moss to her ?211“ And what’s the creeping breeze that comes212“ The little pond to stir ? ”213I cannot tell ; but some will say214She hanged her baby on the tree,215Some say she drowned it in the pond,216Which is a little step beyond,217But all and each agree,218The little babe was buried there,219Beneath that hill of moss so fair.220

XXI.I’ve heard, the moss is spotted red221With drops of that poor infant’s blood ;222But kill a new-born infant thus !223I do not think she could.224Some say, if to the pond you go,22552And fix on it a steady view,226The shadow of a babe you trace,227A baby and a baby’s face,228And that it looks at you ;229Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain230The baby looks at you again.231

XXII.And some had sworn an oath that she232Should be to public justice brought ;233And for the little infant’s bones234With spades they would have sought.235But then the beauteous hill of moss236Before their eyes began to stir ;237And for full fifty yards around,238The grass it shook upon the ground ;239But all do still aver240The little babe is buried there.241Beneath that hill of moss so fair.242

XXIII.I cannot tell how this may be,243But plain it is, the thorn is bound244With heavy tufts of moss, that strive245To drag it to the ground.246And this I know, full many a time,247When she was on the mountain high,248By day, and in the silent night,249When all the stars shone clear and bright,250That I have heard her cry,251“ Oh misery ! oh misery !252“ O woe is me ! oh misery ! ”253

A simple child, dear brother Jim,1That lightly draws its breath, 2And feels its life in every limb, 3What should it know of death ? 4

I met a little cottage girl,5She was eight years old, she said ;6Her hair was thick with many a curl7That cluster’d round her head.8

She had a rustic, woodland air, 9And she was wildly clad ; 10Her eyes were fair, and very fair, 11—Her beauty made me glad. 12

“ Sisters and brothers, little maid, 13“ How many may you be ? ”14“ How many ? seven in all, ” she said,15And wondering looked at me. 16

“ And where are they, I pray you tell ? ”17She answered, “ Seven are we, 18“ And two of us at Conway dwell, 19“ And two are gone to sea.20

“ Two of us in the church-yard lie, 21“ My sister and my brother, 22“ And in the church-yard cottage, I 23“ Dwell near them with my mother. ”24

“ You say that two at Conway dwell,25“ And two are gone to sea, 26“ Yet you are seven ; I pray you tell 27“ Sweet Maid, how this may be ? ”28

Then did the little Maid reply, 29“ Seven boys and girls are we ; 30“ Two of us in the church-yard lie, 31“ Beneath the church-yard tree. ”32

“ You run about, my little maid, 33“ Your limbs they are alive ; 34“ If two are in the church-yard laid, 35“ Then ye are only five. ”36

“ Their graves are green, they may be seen, ”37The little Maid replied, 38“ Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,39“ And they are side by side. 40

“ My stockings there I often knit,41“ My ’kerchief there I hem ;42“ And there upon the ground I sit— 43“ I sit and sing to them. 44

“ And often after sunset, Sir, 45“ When it is light and fair, 46“ I take my little porringer, 47“ And eat my supper there. 48

“ The first that died was little Jane ;49“ In bed she moaning lay, 50“ Till God released her of her pain, 51“ And then she went away.52

“ So in the church-yard she was laid, 53“ And all the summer dry,54“ Together round her grave we played, 55“ My brother John and I.56

“ And when the ground was white with snow,57“ And I could run and slide, 58“ My brother John was forced to go,59“ And he lies by her side. ”60

“ How many are you then, ” said I,61“ If they two are in Heaven ? ”62The little Maiden did reply, 63“ O Master ! we are seven. ”64

“ But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 65“ Their spirits are in heaven ! ”66’Twas throwing words away ; for still67The little Maid would have her will,68And said, “ Nay, we are seven ! ”69

I have a boy of five years old,1His face is fair and fresh to see ;2His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould, 3And dearly he loves me.4

One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk, 5Our quiet house all full in view,6And held such intermitted talk7As we are wont to do.8

My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; 9I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,10My pleasant home, when Spring began, 11A long, long year before. 12

A day it was when I could bear13To think, and think, and think again ;14With so much happiness to spare,15I could not feel a pain.16

My boy was by my side, so slim17And graceful in his rustic dress !18And oftentimes I talked to him19In very idleness.20

The young lambs ran a pretty race ;21The morning sun shone bright and warm ;22“ Kilve, ” said I, “ was a pleasant place,23“ And so is Liswyn farm.24

“ My little boy, which like you more, ”25I said and took him by the arm—26“ Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,27“ Or here at Liswyn farm ? ”28

“ And tell me, had you rather be, ”29I said and held him by the arm,30“ At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,31“ Or here at Liswyn farm ?32

In careless mood he looked at me, 33While still I held him by the arm,34And said, “ At Kilve I’d rather be 35“ Than here at Liswyn farm. ”36

“ Now, little Edward, say why so ;37My little Edward, tell me why ; ”38“ I cannot tell, I do not know. ”39“ Why this is strange, ” said I.40

“ For, here are woods and green hills warm :41“ There surely must some reason be42“ Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm43“ For Kilve by the green sea. ”44

At this, my boy hung down his head,45He blush’d with shame, nor made reply ;46And five times to the child I said,47“ Why, Edward, tell me, why ? ”48

His head he raised—there was in sight,49It caught his eye, he saw it plain—50Upon the house-top, glittering bright,51A broad and gilded vane.52

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,53And thus to me he made reply ; 54“ At Kilve there was no weather-cock,55“ And that’s the reason why. ”56

Oh dearest, dearest boy ! my heart57For better lore would seldom yearn58Could I but teach the hundredth part59Of what from thee I learn.60

It is the first mild day of March :1Each minute sweeter than before,2The red-breast sings from the tall larch3That stands beside our door.4

There is a blessing in the air,5Which seems a sense of joy to yield 6To the bare trees, and mountains bare,7And grass in the green field.8

My Sister ! (’tis a wish of mine)9Now that our morning meal is done,10Make haste, your morning task resign ;11Come forth and feel the sun.12

Edward will come with you, and pray,13Put on with speed your woodland dress, 14And bring no book, for this one day15We’ll give to idleness.16

No joyless forms shall regulate17Our living Calendar :18We from to-day, my friend, will date19The opening of the year.20

Love, now an universal birth,21From heart to heart is stealing,22From earth to man, from man to earth,23—It is the hour of feeling.24

One moment now may give us more 25Than fifty years of reason ;26Our minds shall drink at every pore27The spirit of the season.28

Some silent laws our hearts may make,29Which they shall long obey ;30We for the year to come may take31Our temper from to-day.32

And from the blessed power that rolls33About, below, above ;34We’ll frame the measure of our souls,35They shall be tuned to love.36

Then come, my sister ! come, I pray, 37With speed put on your woodland dress,38And bring no book ; for this one day39We’ll give to idleness.40

By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood,1(The Woman thus her artless story told)2One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood3Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.4Light was my sleep ; my days in transport roll’d :5With thoughtless joy I stretch’d along the shore6My father’s nets, or from the mountain fold7Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar8Or watch’d his lazy boat still less’ning more and more.9

My father was a good and pious man,10An honest man by honest parents bred, 11And I believe that, soon as I began12To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,13And in his hearing there my prayers I said :14And afterwards, by my good father taught,15I read, and loved the books in which I read ;16For books in every neighbouring house I sought,17And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.18

Can I forget what charms did once adorn19My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,20And rose and lily for the sabbath morn ?21The sabbath bells, and the delightful chime ;22The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time ;23My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce espied ;24The cowslip-gathering at May’s dewy prime ;25The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,26From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.27

The staff I yet remember which upbore 28The bending body of my active sire ; 29His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore 30When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire ;31When market-morning came, the neat attire32With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck’d ;33My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,34When stranger passed, so often I have check’d ;35The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck’d.36

The suns of twenty summers danced along,—37Ah ! little marked, how fast they rolled away :38Then rose a stately hall our woods among,39And cottage after cottage owned its sway.40No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray41Through pastures not his own, the master took ;42My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay ;43He loved his old hereditary nook,44And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.45

But when he had refused the proffered gold,46To cruel injuries he became a prey,47Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold :48His troubles grew upon him day by day, 49Till all his substance fell into decay.50His little range of water was denied ;*51All but the bed where his old body lay,52All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,53We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.54

Can I forget that miserable hour,55When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,56Peering above the trees, the steeple tower57That on his marriage-day sweet music made ?58Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,59Close by my mother in their native bowers :60Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,—61I could not pray :—through tears that fell in showers,62Glimmer’d our dear-loved home, alas ! no longer ours !63

There was a youth whom I had loved so long,64That when I loved him not I cannot say. 65’Mid the green mountains many and many a song 66We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.67When we began to tire of childish play68We seemed still more and more to prize each other ;69We talked of marriage and our marriage day ;70And I in truth did love him like a brother, 71For never could I hope to meet with such another.72

His father said, that to a distant town 73He must repair, to ply the artist’s trade. 74What tears of bitter grief till then unknown ?75What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed !76To him we turned :—we had no other aid. 77Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, 78And her whom he had loved in joy, he said 79He well could love in grief : his faith he kept ;80And in a quiet home once more my father slept.81

Four years each day with daily bread was blest,82By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.83Three lovely infants lay upon my breast ; 84And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 85And knew not why. My happy father died 86When sad distress reduced the childrens’ meal :87Thrice happy ! that from him the grave did hide88The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,89And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.90

’Twas a hard change, an evil time was come ;91We had no hope, and no relief could gain.92But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum93Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.94My husband’s arms now only served to strain95Me and his children hungering in his view :96In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain :97To join those miserable men he flew ;98And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.99

There foul neglect for months and months we bore,100Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.101Green fields before us and our native shore,102By fever, from polluted air incurred,103Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.104Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,105’Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr’d,106That happier days we never more must view :107The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew. 108

But from delay the summer calms were past.109On as we drove, the equinoctial deep 110Ran mountains-high before the howling blast.111We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep112Of them that perished in the whirlwind’s sweep,113Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,114Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,115That we the mercy of the waves should rue.116We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.117

Oh ! dreadful price of being to resign 118All that is dear in being ! better far119In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine,120Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star ; 121Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,122Better our dying bodies to obtrude,123Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, 124Protract a curst existence, with the brood 125That lap (their very nourishment !) their brother’s blood.126

The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,127Disease and famine, agony and fear, 128In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 129It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.130All perished—all, in one remorseless year,131Husband and children ! one by one, by sword132And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear 133Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 134A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.135

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 136By the first beams of dawning light impress’d,139In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. 138The very ocean has its hour of rest,139That comes not to the human mourner’s breast.140Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,141A heavenly silence did the waves invest : 142I looked and looked along the silent air, 143Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.144

Ah ! how unlike those late terrific sleeps !145And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke :146The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps !147The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke !148The shriek that from the distant battle broke !149The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host150Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunder-stroke151To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d,152Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost !153

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,154When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,155While like a sea the storming army came, 156And Fire from hell reared his gigantic shape, 157And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape158Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child !159But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape !160—For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,161And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.162

Some mighty gulph of separation past, 163I seemed transported to another world :—164A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast165The impatient mariner the sail unfurl’d, 166And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled167The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,168And from all hope I was forever hurled. 169For me—farthest from earthly port to roam 170Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.171

And oft, robb’d of my perfect mind, I thought172At last my feet a resting-place had found :173Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) 174Roaming the illimitable waters round ; 175Here watch, of every human friend disowned,176All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood— 177To break my dream the vessel reached its bound :178And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,179And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.180

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, 181Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock ; 182Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,183Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 184I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock185From the cross timber of an out-house hung ;186How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock ! 187At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, 188Nor to the beggar’s language could I frame my tongue.189

So passed another day, and so the third : 190Then did I try, in vain, the crowd’s resort, 191In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr’d, 192Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort : 193There, pains which nature could no more support,194With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall ; 195Dizzy my brain, with interruption short196Of hideous sense ; I sunk, nor step could crawl,197And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.198

Recovery came with food : but still, my brain199Was weak, nor of the past had memory.200I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain201Of many things which never troubled me ; 202Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, 203Of looks where common kindness had no part,204Of service done with careless cruelty, 205Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 206And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.207

These things just served to stir the torpid sense,208Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 209Memory, though slow, returned with strength ; and thence210Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,211At houses, men, and common light, amazed.212The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, 213Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed ;214The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,215And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.216

My heart is touched to think that men like these,217The rude earth’s tenants, were my first relief :218How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease ! 219And their long holiday that feared not grief, 220For all belonged to all, and each was chief. 221No plough their sinews strained ; on grating road222No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf223In every vale for their delight was stowed :224For them, in nature’s meads, the milky udder flowed.225

Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made226Of potters wandering on from door to door :227But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,228And other joys my fancy to allure ;229The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor230In barn uplighted, and companions boon231Well met from far with revelry secure,232In depth of forest glade, when jocund June233Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.234

But ill it suited me, in journey dark235O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch ;236To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark,237Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch ;238The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,239The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,240And ear still busy on its nightly watch,241Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill ;242Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.243

What could I do, unaided and unblest ?244Poor Father ! gone was every friend of thine :245And kindred of dead husband are at best 246Small help, and, after marriage such as mine,247With little kindness would to me incline.248Ill was I then for toil or service fit :249With tears whose course no effort could confine,250By high-way side forgetful would I sit251Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.252

I lived upon the mercy of the fields, 253And oft of cruelty the sky accused ; 254On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 255Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 256The fields I for my bed have often used : 257But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth258Is, that I have my inner self abused, 259Foregone the home delight of constant truth,260And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.261

Three years a wanderer, often have I view’d, 262In tears, the sun towards that country tend 263Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 264And now across this moor my steps I bend—265Oh ! tell me whither——for no earthly friend 266Have I.——She ceased, and weeping turned away,267As if because her tale was at an end 268She wept ;—because she had no more to say269Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.270

And this place our forefathers made for man !1This is the process of our love and wisdom2To each poor brother who offends against us—3Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty ?4Is this the only cure ? Merciful God ! 5Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up 6By ignorance and parching poverty, 7His energies roll back upon his heart, 8And stagnate and corrupt ; till changed to poison,9They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot.10Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks—11And this is their best cure ! uncomforted1284And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,13And savage faces, at the clanking hour,14Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,15By the lamp’s dismal twilight ! So he lies16Circled with evil, till his very soul17Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed 18By sights of ever more deformity !19

With other ministrations thou, O nature !20Healest thy wandering and distempered child :21Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,22Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, 23Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, 24Till he relent, and can no more endure 25To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, 26Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 27But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,28His angry spirit healed and harmonized 29By the benignant touch of love and beauty.30

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 1Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 2An old man dwells, a little man, 3I’ve heard he once was tall. 4Of years he has upon his back, 5No doubt, a burthen weighty ; 6He says he is three score and ten, 7But others say he’s eighty.8

A long blue livery-coat has he, 9That’s fair behind, and fair before ; 10Yet, meet him where you will, you see 11At once that he is poor. 12Full five and twenty years he lived 13A running huntsman merry ; 14And, though he has but one eye left,15His cheek is like a cherry. 16

No man like him the horn could sound,17And no man was so full of glee ;18To say the least, four counties round19Had heard of Simon Lee ;20His master’s dead, and no one now21Dwells in the hall of Ivor ;22Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ;23He is the sole survivor.24

His hunting feats have him bereft25Of his right eye, as you may see :26And then, what limbs those feats have left 27To poor old Simon Lee !28He has no son, he has no child,29His wife, an aged woman,30Lives with him, near the waterfall, 31Upon the village common. 32

And he is lean and he is sick,33His dwindled body’s half awry,34His ancles they are swoln and thick ;35His legs are thin and dry.36When he was young he little knew 37Of husbandry or tillage ;38And now he’s forced to work, though weak,39—The weakest in the village.40

He all the country could outrun,41Could leave both man and horse behind ;42And often, ere the race was done,43He reeled and was stone-blind.44And still there’s something in the world45At which his heart rejoices ;46For when the chiming hounds are out,47He dearly loves their voices !48

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,49And does what Simon cannot do ;50For she, not over stout of limb,51Is stouter of the two.52And though you with your utmost skill53From labour could not wean them,54Alas ! ’tis very little, all55Which they can do between them.56

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,57Not twenty paces from the door,58A scrap of land they have, but they59Are poorest of the poor.60This scrap of land he from the heath 61Enclosed when he was stronger ;62But what avails the land to them, 63Which they can till no longer ?64

Few months of life has he in store, 65As he to you will tell,66For still, the more he works, the more67His poor old ancles swell.68My gentle reader, I perceive69How patiently you’ve waited,70And I’m afraid that you expect71Some tale will be related.72

O reader ! had you in your mind 73Such stores as silent thought can bring, 74O gentle reader ! you would find 75A tale in every thing.76What more I have to say is short, 77I hope you’ll kindly take it ;78It is no tale ; but should you think,79Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.80

One summer-day I chanced to see81This old man doing all he could 82About the root of an old tree, 83A stump of rotten wood.84The mattock totter’d in his hand ;85So vain was his endeavour 86That at the root of the old tree 87He might have worked for ever.88

“ You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,89Give me your tool ” to him I said ;90And at the word right gladly he 91Received my proffer’d aid. 92I struck, and with a single blow93The tangled root I sever’d,94At which the poor old man so long95And vainly had endeavoured.96

The tears into his eyes were brought,97And thanks and praises seemed to run98So fast out of his heart, I thought99They never would have done.100—I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds101With coldness still returning. 102Alas ! the gratitude of men103Has oftner left me mourning.104

I heard a thousand blended notes, 1While in a grove I sate reclined,2In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts3Bring sad thoughts to the mind.4

To her fair works did nature link5The human soul that through me ran ;6And much it griev’d my heart to think7What man has made of man.8

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,9The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes ;10And ’tis my faith that every flower11Enjoys the air it breathes.12

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d :13Their thoughts I cannot measure,14But the least motion which they made,15It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.16

The budding twigs spread out their fan,17To catch the breezy air ;18And I must think, do all I can, 19That there was pleasure there.20

If I these thoughts may not prevent,21If such be of my creed the plan,22Have I not reason to lament23What man has made of man ?24

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 1Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip2Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.3Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge !4You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5But hear no murmuring : it flows silently6O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,7A balmy night ! and tho’ the stars be dim,8Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 9That gladden the green earth, and we shall find10A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.11

And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song,12“ Most musical, most melancholy ”* Bird !13A melancholy Bird ? O idle thought ! 14In nature there is nothing melancholy.15—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d16With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 17Or slow distemper or neglected love,18(And so, poor Wretch ! fill’d all things with himself19And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale20Of his own sorrows) he and such as he21First named these notes a melancholy strain :22And many a poet echoes the conceit ;23Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme24

When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs25Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell 26By sun or moonlight, to the influxes27Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements28Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song29And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame30Should share in nature’s immortality,31A venerable thing ! and so his song 32Should make all nature lovelier, and itself33Be lov’d, like nature !—But ’twill not be so ;34And youths and maidens most poetical35Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring36In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 37Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs38O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.39My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister ! we have learnt40A different lore : we may not thus profane41Nature’s sweet voices always full of love 42And joyance ! ’Tis the merry Nightingale43

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates44With fast thick warble his delicious notes,45As he were fearful, that an April night46Would be too short for him to utter forth47His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul48Of all its music ! And I know a grove49Of large extent, hard by a castle huge50Which the great lord inhabits not : and so51This grove is wild with tangling underwood,52And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,53Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.54But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55So many Nightingales : and far and near 56In wood and thicket over the wide grove 57They answer and provoke each other’s songs—58With skirmish and capricious passagings,59And murmurs musical and swift jug jug60And one low piping sound more sweet than all—61Stirring the air with such an harmony,62

That should you close your eyes, you might almost63Forget it was not day ! 64

A most gentle maidWho dwelleth in her hospitable home 65Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, 66(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate67To something more than nature in the grove)68Glides thro’ the pathways ; she knows all their notes,69That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment’s space,70What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,71Hath heard a pause of silence : till the Moon72Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky73With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds74Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 75As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept76An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch’d77Many a Nightingale perch giddily 78On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,79

And to that motion tune his wanton song,80Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 81

Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 82And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell !83We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 84And now for our dear homes.—That strain again !85Full fain would it delay me !—My dear Babe,86Who, capable of no articulate sound, 87Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 88How he would place his hand beside his ear,89His little hand, the small forefinger up,90And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise91To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well92The evening star : and once when he awoke93In most distressful mood (some inward pain94Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)95I hurried with him to our orchard plot,96And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once97

Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 98While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears99Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well—100It is a father’s tale. But if that Heaven 101Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up102Familiar with these songs, that with the night103He may associate Joy ! Once more farewell, 104Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends ! farewell.105

How rich the wave, in front, imprest 1With evening twilight’s summer hues, 2While, facing thus the crimson west, 3The boat her silent course pursues ! 4And see how dark the backward stream ! 5A little moment past, so smiling ! 6And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 7Some other loiterer beguiling. 8

Such views the youthful bard allure,9But, heedless of the following gloom, 10He deems their colours shall endure 11’Till peace go with him to the tomb.12—And let him nurse his fond deceit, 13And what if he must die in sorrow !14Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,15Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ?16

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,1O Thames ! that other bards may see, 2As lovely visions by thy side 3As now, fair river ! come to me. 4Oh glide, fair stream ! for ever so ; 5Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 6’Till all our minds for ever flow,7As thy deep waters now are flowing. 8

Vain thought ! yet be as now thou art,9That in thy waters may be seen10The image of a poet’s heart,11How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 12

Such as did once the poet bless,13Who, pouring here a * later ditty,14Could find no refuge from distress, 15But in the milder grief of pity. 16

Remembrance ! as we float along, 17For him suspend the dashing oar,18And pray that never child of Song19May know his freezing sorrows more.20How calm ! how still ! the only sound,21The dripping of the oar suspended !22—The evening darkness gathers round23By virtue’s holiest powers attended.24

’Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night, 1The moon is up—the sky is blue, 2The owlet in the moonlight air, 3He shouts from nobody knows where ;4He lengthens out his lonely shout,5Halloo ! halloo ! a long halloo !6

—Why bustle thus about your door, 7What means this bustle, Betty Foy ?8Why are you in this mighty fret ?9And why on horseback have you set 10Him whom you love, your idiot boy ? 11

Beneath the moon that shines so bright,12Till she is tired, let Betty Foy 13With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle ;14But wherefore set upon a saddle 15Him whom she loves, her idiot boy ? 16

There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed ; 17Good Betty put him down again ;18His lips with joy they burr at you, 19But, Betty ! what has he to do20With stirrup, saddle, or with rein ? 21

The world will say ’tis very idle,22Bethink you of the time of night ;23There’s not a mother, no not one,24But when she hears what you have done, 25Oh ! Betty she’ll be in a fright. 26

But Betty’s bent on her intent,27For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 28Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 29Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 30As if her very life would fail. 31

There’s not a house within a mile, 32No hand to help them in distress :33Old Susan lies a bed in pain,34And sorely puzzled are the twain, 35For what she ails they cannot guess. 36

And Betty’s husband’s at the wood, 37Where by the week he doth abide, 38A woodman in the distant vale ; 39There’s none to help poor Susan Gale, 40What must be done ? what will betide ? 41

And Betty from the lane has fetched42Her pony, that is mild and good, 43Whether he be in joy or pain, 44Feeding at will along the lane, 45Or bringing faggots from the wood. 46

And he is all in traveling trim, 47And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 48Has up upon the saddle set,49The like was never heard of yet, 50Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. 51

And he must post without delay 52Across the bridge that’s in the dale, 53And by the church, and o’er the down, 54To bring a doctor from the town, 55Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 56

There is no need of boot or spur, 57There is no need of whip or wand, 58For Johnny has his holly-bough, 59And with a hurly-burly now60He shakes the green bough in his hand. 61

And Betty o’er and o’er has told 62The boy who is her best delight, 63Both what to follow, what to shun, 64What do, and what to leave undone, 65How turn to left, and how to right. 66

And Betty’s most especial charge,67Was, “ Johnny ! Johnny ! mind that you 68“ Come home again, nor stop at all,69“ Come home again, whate’er befal, 70“ My Johnny do, I pray you do. ”71

To this did Johnny answer make,72Both with his head, and with his hand, 73And proudly shook the bridle too,74And then ! his words were not a few, 75Which Betty well could understand. 76

And now that Johnny is just going,77Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry,78She gently pats the pony’s side, 79On which her idiot boy must ride, 80And seems no longer in a hurry. 81

But when the pony moved his legs, 82Oh ! then for the poor idiot boy ! 83For joy he cannot hold the bridle,84For joy his head and heels are idle, 85He’s idle all for very joy. 86

And while the pony moves his legs, 87In Johnny’s left hand you may see, 88The green bough’s motionless and dead :89The moon that shines above his head90Is not more still and mute than he.91

His heart it was so full of glee, 92That till full fifty yards were gone,93He quite forgot his holly whip,94And all his skill in horsemanship,95Oh ! happy, happy, happy John.96

And Betty’s standing at the door,97And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows, 98Proud of herself, and proud of him, 99She sees him in his travelling trim ; 100How quietly her Johnny goes. 101

The silence of her idiot boy, 102What hopes it sends to Betty’s heart !103He’s at the guide-post—he turns right, 104She watches till he’s out of sight,105And Betty will not then depart.106

Burr, burr—now Johnny’s lips they burr,107As loud as any mill, or near it, 108Meek as a lamb the pony moves, 109And Johnny makes the noise he loves,110And Betty listens, glad to hear it.111

Away she hies to Susan Gale : 112And Johnny’s in a merry tune, 113The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,114And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr, 115And on he goes beneath the moon.116

His steed and he right well agree, 117For of this pony there’s a rumour,118That should he lose his eyes and ears, 119And should he live a thousand years, 120He never will be out of humour.121

But then he is a horse that thinks ! 122And when he thinks his pace is slack ; 123Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 124Yet for his life he cannot tell 125What he has got upon his back.126

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 127And far into the moonlight dale,128And by the church, and o’er the down, 129To bring a doctor from the town, 130To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 131

And Betty, now at Susan’s side,132Is in the middle of her story, 133What comfort Johnny soon will bring,134With many a most diverting thing,135Of Johnny’s wit and Johnny’s glory. 136

And Betty’s still at Susan’s side :137By this time she’s not quite so flurried ;138Demure with porringer and plate139She sits, as if in Susan’s fate 140Her life and soul were buried.141

But Betty, poor good woman ! she, 142You plainly in her face may read it, 143Could lend out of that moment’s store 144Five years of happiness or more, 145To any that might need it. 146

But yet I guess that now and then 147With Betty all was not so well, 148And to the road she turns her ears, 149And thence full many a sound she hears, 150Which she to Susan will not tell.151

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,152“ As sure as there’s a moon in heaven, ”153Cries Betty, “ he’ll be back again ; 154“ They’ll both be here, ’tis almost ten, 155“ They’ll both be here before eleven. ”156

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 157The clock gives warning for eleven ; 158’Tis on the stroke—“ If Johnny’s near, ”159Quoth Betty “ he will soon be here, 160“ As sure as there’s a moon in heaven. ”161

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, 162And Johnny is not yet in sight, 163The moon’s in heaven, as Betty sees, 164But Betty is not quite at ease ; 165And Susan has a dreadful night.166

And Betty, half an hour ago, 167On Johnny vile reflections cast : 168“ A little idle sauntering thing ! ”169With other names, an endless string, 170But now that time is gone and past.171

And Betty’s drooping at the heart,172That happy time all past and gone, 173“ How can it be he is so late ? 174“ The Doctor he has made him wait, 175“ Susan ! they’ll both be here anon. ”176

And Susan’s growing worse and worse, 177And Betty’s in a sad quandary ; 178And then there’s nobody to say 179If she must go or she must stay : 180—She’s in a sad quandary. 181

The clock is on the stroke of one ; 182But neither Doctor nor his guide 183Appear along the moonlight road,184There’s neither horse nor man abroad, 185And Betty’s still at Susan’s side. 186

And Susan she begins to fear 187Of sad mischances not a few, 188That Johnny may perhaps be drown’d, 189Or lost perhaps, and never found ; 190Which they must both for ever rue. 191

She prefaced half a hint of this 192With, “ God forbid it should be true ! ”193At the first word that Susan said 194Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 195“ Susan, I’d gladly stay with you. 196

“ I must be gone, I must away, 197“ Consider, Johnny’s but half-wise ; 198“ Susan, we must take care of him, 199“ If he is hurt in life or limb ”—200“ Oh God forbid ! ” poor Susan cries.201

“ What can I do ? ” says Betty, going, 202“ What can I do to ease your pain ? 203“ Good Susan tell me, and I’ll stay ; 204“ I fear you’re in a dreadful way, 205“ But I shall soon be back again. ”206

“ Nay, Betty, go ! good Betty, go ! 207“ There’s nothing that can ease my pain. ”208Then off she hies, but with a prayer 209That God poor Susan’s life would spare, 210Till she comes back again. 211

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 212And far into the moonlight dale ; 213And how she ran, and how she walked, 214And all that to herself she talked, 215Would surely be a tedious tale. 216

In high and low, above, below, 217In great and small, in round and square, 218In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 219In bush and brake, in black and green, 220’Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.221

She’s past the bridge that’s in the dale,222And now the thought torments her sore,223Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 224To hunt the moon that’s in the brook, 225And never will be heard of more. 226

And now she’s high upon the down, 227Alone amid a prospect wide ; 228There’s neither Johnny nor his horse, 229Among the fern or in the gorse ; 230There’s neither doctor nor his guide. 231

“ Oh saints ! what is become of him ? 232“ Perhaps he’s climbed into an oak, 233“ Where he will stay till he is dead ; 234“ Or sadly he has been misled, 235“ And joined the wandering gypsey-folk. 236

“ Or him that wicked pony’s carried 237“ To the dark cave, the goblins’ hall, 238“ Or in the castle he’s pursuing, 239“ Among the ghosts, his own undoing ; 240“ Or playing with the waterfall. ”241

At poor old Susan then she railed, 242While to the town she posts away ; 243“ If Susan had not been so ill, 244“ Alas ! I should have had him still, 245“ My Johnny, till my dying day. ”246

Poor Betty ! in this sad distemper, 247The doctor’s self would hardly spare, 248Unworthy things she talked and wild, 249Even he, of cattle the most mild, 250The pony had his share.251

And now she’s got into the town, 252And to the doctor’s door she hies ; 253’Tis silence all on every side ; 254The town so long, the town so wide, 255Is silent as the skies. 256

And now she’s at the doctor’s door, 257She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap,258The doctor at the casement shews,259His glimmering eyes that peep and doze ;260And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 261

“ Oh Doctor ! Doctor ! where’s my Johnny ? ”262“ I’m here, what is’t you want with me ? ”263“ Oh Sir ! you know I’m betty Foy,264“ And I have lost my poor dear boy, 265“ You know him—him you often see ; 266

“ He’s not so wise as some folks be, ”267“ The devil take his wisdom ! ” said268The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 269“ What, woman ! should I know of him ? ”270And, grumbling, he went back to bed. 271

“ O woe is me ! O woe is me ! 272“ Here will I die ; here will I die ; 273“ I thought to find my Johnny here, 274“ But he is neither far nor near, 275“ Oh ! what a wretched mother I ! ”276

She stops, she stands, she looks about, 277Which way to turn she cannot tell. 278Poor Betty ! it would ease her pain 279If she had the heart to knock again ; 280—The clock strikes three—a dismal knell !281

Then up along the town she hies,282No wonder if her senses fail,283This piteous news so much it shock’d her,284She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 285To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 286

And now she’s high upon the down,287And she can see a mile of road,288“ Oh cruel ! I’m almost three-score ; 289“ Such night as this was ne’er before,290“ There’s not a single soul abroad. ”291

She listens, but she cannot hear 292The foot of horse, the voice of man ; 293The streams with softest sound are flowing,294The grass you almost hear it growing,295You hear it now if e’er you can. 296

The owlets through the long blue night297Are shouting to each other still : 298Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob, 299They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 300That echoes far from hill to hill.301

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 302Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin ; 303A green-grown pond she just has pass’d, 304And from the brink she hurries fast, 305Lest she should drown herself therein. 306

And now she sits her down and weeps ; 307Such tears she never shed before ; 308“ Oh dear, dear pony ! my sweet joy !309“ Oh carry back my idiot boy ! 310“ And we will ne’er o’erload thee more. ”311

A thought it come into her head ;312“ The pony he is mild and good,313“ And we have always used him well ;314“ Perhaps he’s gone along the dell,315“ And carried Johnny to the wood. ”316

Then up she springs as if on wings ; 317She thinks no more of deadly sin ; 318If Betty fifty ponds should see, 319The last of all her thoughts would be,320To drown herself therein.321

Oh reader ! now that I might tell 322What Johnny and his horse are doing ! 323What they’ve been doing all this time, 324Oh could I put it into rhyme, 325A most delightful tale pursuing !326

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought ! 327He with his pony now doth roam 328The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 329To lay his hands upon a star, 330And in his pocket bring it home. 331

Perhaps he’s turned himself about, 332His face unto his horse’s tail,333And still and mute, in wonder lost, 334All like a silent horseman-ghost, 335He travels on along the vale. 336

And now, perhaps, he’s hunting sheep, 337A fierce and dreadful hunter he ! 338Yon valley, that’s so trim and green, 339In five months’ time, should he be seen, 340A desart wilderness will be. 341

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 342And like the very soul of evil, 343He’s galloping away, away, 344And so he’ll gallop on for aye, 345The bane of all that dread the devil. 346

I to the muses have been bound 347These fourteen years, by strong indentures :348Oh gentle muses ! let me tell 349But half of what to him befel,350For sure he met with strange adventures.351

Oh gentle muses ! is this kind352Why will ye thus my suit repel ? 353Why of your further aid bereave me ? 354And can you thus unfriended leave me ? 355Ye muses ! whom I love so well. 356

Who’s yon, that, near the waterfall, 357Which thunders down with headlong force,358Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, 359As careless as if nothing were, 360Sits upright on a feeding horse ? 361