HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles
from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road
which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived
/C from a remarkable chace, the memory of which is preserved
by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following
Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described
them.8

19

The BROTHERS.*

1

“These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live1“A profitable life: some glance along,2““Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,3“And they were butterflies to wheel about4:/“Long as their summer lasted ; some, as wise,5“Upon the forehead of a jutting crag6“Sit perch’d with book and pencil on their knee,7“And look and scribble, scribble on and look,8“Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,9“Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.10

* This Poem was intended to be the concluding poem of a series
of pastorals, the scene of which was laid among the mountains
of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I mention this to apologise
for the abruptness with which the poem begins.20

1

/S“But, for that moping son of Idleness^, /11“Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard12“Is neither epitaph nor monument,13“Tomb-stone nor name, only the turf we tread, —/14“And a few natural graves. ^” To Jane, his Wife,15Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.16/; It was a July evening, and he sate ;17Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves18Of his old cottage, as it chanced^ that day, ‘/19Employ’d in winter’s work. Upon the stone20His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,21While, from the twin cards tooth’d with glittering wire,22He fed the spindle of his youngest child, C/23Who turn’d her large round wheel in the open air24With back and forward steps. Towards the field25/P/C In which the parish chapel stood alone,26Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,27While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent28Many a long look of wonder. and at last,29Risen from his seat, beside the snowy^-white^dw ridge30

snow-white
with a hyphen^dw

21

1

Of carded wool which the old Man had piled31He laid his implements with gentle care,32Each in the other lock’d; and, down the path33Which from his cottage to the church-yard led,34He took his way, impatient to accost35The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.36

2

’Twas one well known to him in former days,37A Shepherd-lad: who ere his thirteenth year38Had chang’d his calling, with the mariners39A fellow-mariner, and so had fared40Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear’d41Among the mountains, and he in his heart42Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.43Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard44The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds45/— Of caves and trees; and^ when the regular wind , /46Between the tropics fill’d the steady sail^ , /47And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,48Lengthening invisibly its weary line49

22

2

/M Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours50/, Of tiresome indolence^ would often hang51Over the vessel’s side, and gaze and gaze,52And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam53Flash’d round him images and hues, that wrought54In union with the employment of his heart,55He, thus by feverish passion overcome,56Even with the organs of his bodily eye,57Below him, in the bosom of the deep^, /58Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz’d59On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,60And Shepherds clad in the same country grey61Which he himself had worn.*62

3

And now at length,From perils manifold, with some small wealth63Acquir’d by traffic in the Indian Isles,64To his paternal home he is return’d,65

*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imper-
fect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert,
Author of the Hurricane.23

3

With a determin’d purpose to resume66/: The life which he liv’d there, both for the sake67Of many darling pleasures, and the love68Which to an only brother he has borne69In all his hardships, since that happy time70When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two71Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.72——They were the last of all their race; and now, :/73When Leonard had approach’d his home, his heart74;Fail’d in him, and, not venturing to inquire75Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov’d,76Towards the church-yard he had turn’d aside,77That, as he knew in what particular spot78His family were laid, he thence might learn79If still his Brother liv’d, or to the file80Another grave was added.—He had found81Another grave, near which a full half hour82/; He had remain’d, but, as he gaz’d, there grew83Such a confusion in his memory,84That he began to doubt, and he had hopes85

24

3

That he had seen this heap of turf before,86That it was not another grave, but one,87He had forgotten. He had lost his path,88As up the vale he came that afternoon,89Through fields which once had been well known to him.90And Oh! what joy the recollection now91Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,92And looking round he thought that he perceiv’d93Strange alteration wrought on every side94Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,95And the eternal hills, themselves were chang’d.96

4

By this the Priest who down the field had come97Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate98Stopp’d short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb99He scann’d him with a gay complacency.100Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,101’Tis one of those who needs must leave the path102Of the world’s business, to go wild alone:103His arms have a perpetual holiday,;/104

25

4

M The happy man will creep about the fields105Following his fancies by the hour, to bring106Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles107Into his face, until the setting sun108Write Fool upon his forehead. Planted thus109Beneath a shed that overarch’d the gate110Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear’d111The good man might have commun’d with himself112But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,113Approach’d; he recogniz’d the Priest at once,114, And^after greetings interchang’d, and given115By Leonard to the Vicar as to one116Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.117

LEONARD.You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:118Your years make up one peaceful family;11926

And yet, some changes must take place among you.:124And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks125Can trace the finger of mortality,126And see, that with our threescore years and ten127We are not all that perish.——I remember,128For many years ago I pass’d this road,129There was a foot-way all along the fields130By the brook-side—’tis gone—and that dark cleft!131To me it does not seem to wear the face132Which then it had.133

PRIEST. Why, Sir, for aught I know,That chasm is much the same—134

LEONARD. But, surely, yonder—

PRIEST.27

For accidents and changes such as these,144Why we have store of them! a water-spout145Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast146For folks that wander up and down like you,147To see an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff148!— One roaring cataract—a sharp May storm149Will come with loads of January snow,150And in one night send twenty score of sheep151; To feed the ravens, or a Shepherd dies152By some untoward death among the rocks:153The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge—154A wood is fell’d:—and then for our own homes!155C A child is born or christen’d, a field plough’d, F/156D A daughter sent to service, a web spun, W/157The old house cloth^-clock^dw is deck’d with a new face; H/
House-clock^dw158Commend me to these vallies.164

LEONARD. Yet your church-yard C/Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,165To say that you are heedless of the past.166An orphan could not find his mothers grave:^dw167Here’s neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,168Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state169Or emblem of our hopes: the dead man’s home170Is but a fellow to that pasture field.171

PRIEST.Why there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me.172The Stone-cutters, ’tis true, might beg their bread173/C If every English church-yard were like ours:174Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth.17529

We have no need of names and epitaphs,;/176We talk about the dead by our fire-sides.177, And^then for our immortal part,we want !/178No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:179The thought of death sits easy on the man180Who has been born and dies among the mountains:./181

LEONARD.D Your dalesmen, then, do in each other’s thoughts182Possess a kind of second life: no doubt183You, Sir, could help me to the history184Of half these Graves?185

PRIEST.For eight-score winters past,^dw185With what I’ve witness’d, and with what I’ve heard,186;Perhaps I might, and, on a winter’s evening,187If you were seated at my chimney’s nook^, /188By turning o’er these hillocks one by one,d/189We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round,190Yet all in the broad high-way of the world.191Now there’s a grave—your foot is half upon it,19230

/; It looks just like the rest, and yet that man M/193Died broken-hearted.194

LEONARD. ’Tis a common case,We’ll take another: who is he that lies195Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves;—196It touches on that piece of native rock197Left in the church-yard wall.198

PRIEST. That’s Walter Ewbank.He had as white a head and fresh a cheek199As ever were produc’d by youth and age200Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.201For five long generations had the heart202Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflow’d the bounds203Of their inheritance, that single cottage,204/!/—^You see it yonder, and those few green fields.205They toil’d and wrought, and still, from sire toson, S/S/206Each struggled, and each yielded as before20731

A little—yet a little—and old Walter,208They left to him the family heart, and land209With other burthens than the crop it bore.210Year after year the old man still preserv’dkept up^dw211A chearful mind, and buffeted with bond,212Interest and mortgages; at last he sank,213And went into his grave before his time.214Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurr’d him215God only knows, but to the very last216He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:217His pace was never that of an old man:218I almost see him tripping down the path219With his two Grandsons after him—but you, Y/220Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,221Have far to travel, and in these rough paths222Even in the longest day of midsummer—223

LEONARD.But these two Orphans!223

PRIEST. Orphans! such they were—22332

Yet not while Walter liv’d—for, though their Parents225Lay buried side by side as now they lie,226The old Man was a father to the boys,227Two fathers in one father: and if tears^, /228/d Shed, when he talk’d of them where they were not,229And hauntings from the infirmity of love,230Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart,231This old Man in the day of his old age232Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,233/S To hear a stranger talking about strangers, S/234Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!235Aye. You may turn that way—it is a grave236Which will bear looking at.237

LEONARD. These Boys^I hope —/236They lov’d this good old Man—238

PRIEST. They did—and truly,:/But that was what we almost overlook’d,23933

They were such darlings of each other. For240Though from their cradles they had liv’d with Walter,241/K The only kinsman near them in the house,242Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,243And it all went into each other’s hearts.244Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,245Was two years taller: ’twas a joy to see,246To hear, to meet them! from their house the School247Was distant three short miles, and in the time —/248Of storm and thaw, when every water-course249And unbridg’d stream, such as you may have notic’d250Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,251Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,252Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps253Remain’d at home, go staggering through the fords254Bearing his Brother on his back.—I’ve seen him,255On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,256Aye, more than once I’ve seen him mid-leg deep,257Their two books lying both on a dry stone258Upon the hither side:—and once I said,25934

As I remember, looking round these rocks260And hills on which we all of us were born,261That God who made the great book of the world262Would bless such piety—263

LEONARD, It may be then—

PRIEST.Never did worthier lads break English bread:!/264The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,265Withal its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,266Could never keep these boys away from church,267Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.268Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner269Among these rocks and every hollow place270Where foot could come, to one or both of them271Was known as well as to the flowers that grew there. o/272/R Like roe-bucks they went bounding o’er the hills:273/R They play’d like two young ravens on the crags:274Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well27535

As many of their betters—and for Leonard!276The very night before he went away,277In my own house I put into his hand278A Bible, and I’d wager twenty pounds,279That, if he is alive, he has it yet.280

LEONARD.It seems, these Brothers have not liv’d to be281A comfort to each other.—282

PRIEST.That they mightLive to that end, is what both old and young283In this our valley all of us have wish’d,284And what, for my part, I have often pray’d:285But Leonard—286

LEONARD. Then James still is left among you—!/

PRIEST.’Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:28736

They had an Uncle, he was at that time288A thriving man, and traffick’d on the seas:289And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour290Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.291For the Boy lov’d the life which we lead here;292And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old;, /293His soul was knit to this his native soil.294But, as I said, old Walter was too weak295To strive with such a torrent; when he died,296E/H The estate and house were sold, and all their sheep, S/297A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,298Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years.299Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.300And Leonard, chiefly for his brother’s sake, B/301Resolv’d to try his fortune on the seas.302’Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.303If there was one among us who had heard304That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,30537

From the Great Gavel*, down by Leeza’s banks, 306And down the Enna, far as Egremont,307The day would be a very festival,308And those two bells of ours, which there you see309Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir!310This is sad talk—they’ll never sound for him311Living or dead—When last we heard of him312He was in slavery among the Moors313Upon the Barbary Coast—’Twas not a little314That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt,315Before it ended in his death, the Lad316

* The great Gavel, so called^ I imagine, from its resemblance , /
to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cum-
berland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of
Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

The Leeza is a River which follows^into the Lake of Enner- flows/^dw
dale: on issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is
called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the sea a little be-
low Egremont.38

18

Was sadly cross’d—Poor Leonard! when we parted,317He took me by the hand and said to me,318If ever the day came when he was rich,319He would return, and on his Father’s Land320He would grow old among us.321

LEONARD. If that dayShould come, ’twould needs be a glad day for him;322He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then d/323As any that should meet him—324

PRIEST. Happy, Sir— !/

LEONARD.You said his kindred all were in their graves,325And that he had one Brother— 326

PRIEST. That is but39

A fellow tale of sorrow. From his youth327James, though not sickly, yet was delicate,328And Leonard being always by his side329Had done so many offices about him,330That, though he was not of a timid nature,331Yet still the spirit of a mountain boy M/B332In him was somewhat check’d, and^when his Brother , /333Was gone to sea and he was left alone^, /334The little colour that he had was soon335Stolen from his cheek, he droop’d, and pin’d and pin’d: —/336

LEONARD.But these are all the graves of full-grown men!337

PRIEST.Aye, Sir, that pass’d away: we took him to us.338/C He was the child of all the dale—he liv’d339Three months with one, and six months with another:;/340And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love,:/341And many, many happy days were his.34240

But, whether blithe or sad, ’tis my belief343His absent Brother still was at his heart.344And, when he liv’d beneath our roof, we found345(A practice till this time unknown to him)346That often, rising from his bed at night,347He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping348He sought his Brother Leonard—You are mov’d!349Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,350I judg’d you most unkindly.351

LEONARD. But this youth, Y/How did he die at last? 352

PRIEST. One sweet May morning,It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns,353He had gone forth among the new-dropp’d lambs,354/C With two or three companions whom it chanc’d355Some further business summon’d to a house35641

Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir’d perhaps,357Or from some other cause ^ remain’d behind. , /358/P You see yon precipice—it almost looks359Like some vast building made of many crags,;/360And in the midst is one particular rock361That rises like a column from the vale,362Whence by our Shepherds it is call’d, the Pillar.363James, pointing^ed to its summit, over which364They all had purpos’d to return together,365Inform’d^and told ^dwthem that he there would wait for them:366/C They parted, and his comrades pass’d that way367Some two hours after, but they did not find him368Upon the Pillar—at the appointed place.^dw369At the appointed place, a circumstance369this^dw Of which^this they took no heed : but one of them, 370Going by chance, at night, into the house371Which at thisthat^dw time was James’s home, there learn’d372That nobody had seen him all that day:373The morning came, and still, he was unheard of:374The neighbours were alarm’d, and to the Brook375Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere noon37642

They found him at the foot of that same Rock^—/377Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after378I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies.379

LEONARD.And that then is his grave!—Before his death380You said that he saw many happy years?381

PRIEST.Aye, that he did— 382

LEONARD.And all went well with him—

PRIEST.If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.383

LEONARD.And you believe then, that his mind was easy—384

43

PRIEST.Yes, long before he died, he found that time385/: Is a true friend to sorrow, and unless386His thoughts were turn’d on Leonard’s luckless fortune,387He talk’d about him with a chearful love.388

LEONARDHe could not come to an unhallow’d end!389

PRIEST.Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention’d390A habit which disquietude and grief391/; Had brought upon him, and we all conjectur’d392That, as the day was warm, he had lain down393Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades394/; He there had fallen asleep, that in his sleep395He to the margin of the precipice396Had walk’d, and from the summit had fallen head-long,./397And so no doubt he perish’d : at the time,398We guess, that in his hands he must have had39944

His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff400/; It had been caught, and there for many years401It hung—and moulder’d there.402

35

The Priest here ended—The Stranger would have thank’d him, but he felt403Tears rushing in ; both left the spot in silence,404And Leonard, when they reach’d the church-yard gate,405As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn’d round,406And, looking at the grave, he said, “My Brother.”407The Vicar did not hear the words : and now,408Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated409That Leonard would partake his homely fare:410The other thank’d him with a fervent voice,411But added, that, the evening being calm,412He would pursue his journey. So they parted.413

36

It was not long ere Leonard reach’d a grove414That overhung the road : he there stopp’d short,415And, sitting down beneath the trees, review’d416All that the Priest had said : his early years417

47

2

From many Knights and many Squires9The Bruce had been selected,;/10And Gordon, fairest of them all,11By Ellen was rejected.12Sad tidings to that noble Youth!13For it may be proclaim’d with truth,14If Bruce hath lov’d sincerely,15The Gordon loves as dearly.16

3

But what is Gordon’s beauteous face?17And what are Gordon’s crosses18To them who sit by Kirtle’s Braes19Upon the verdant mosses?20Alas that ever he was born!21The Gordon, couch’d behind a thorn,22Sees them and their caressing,23Beholds them bless’d and blessing.24

48

4

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts25That through his brain are travelling,26And, starting up, to Bruce’s heart27He launch’d a deadly jav’lin!28Fair Ellen saw it when it came,29And, stepping forth to meet the same,30Did with her body cover31The Youth her chosen lover.32

5

And, falling into Bruce’s arms,33Thus died the beauteous Ellen,34Thus from the heart of her true-love35The mortal spear repelling.36And Bruce, as soon as he had slain37The Gordon, sail’d away to Spain,;/38And fought with rage incessant39Against the Moorish Crescent.40

49

6

/, But many days^and many months,41And many years ensuing,42This wretched Knight did vainly seek43The death that he was wooing:44/,So^And^dw coming back across the wave,45Without a groan on Ellen’s grave46His body he extended,47And there his sorrow ended.48

7

/, Now ye^who willingly have heard49The tale I have been telling,50May in Kirkonnel church-yard view51The grave of lovely Ellen:52By Ellen’s side the Bruce is laid,;/53And, for the stone upon his head,54May no rude hand deface it,55And its forlorn ^Hic jacet.Hic jacet,
these two words
in small capitals^dw56

50

a Reverie^dw

1

Strange fits of passion I have known,:/1And I will dare to tell,2/L But in the lover’s ear alone,3What once to me befel.4

2

When she I lov’d, was strong and gay5And like a rose in June,6I to her cottage bent my way,7Beneath the evening moon. M/8

3

/M Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,9All over the wide lea;:/10/H/— My horse trudg’d on^ and we drew nigh11Those paths so dear to me.12

51

4

And now we reach’d the orchard plot,;/13And, as we climb’d the hill,14Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot15/M The moon descended still.16

5

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,17Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!18And, all the while, my eyes I kept19On the descending moon. M/20

6

/H My horse mov’d on; hoof after hoof21/,He rais’d^and never stopp’d:22When down behind the cottage roof23/P At once the planet dropp’d.24

7

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide25Into a Lover’s head—26“O mercy!” to myself I cried,27“If Lucy should be dead!”28

52

SONG. /D

1

She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways1 Beside the springs of Dove,2A Maid whom there were none to praise^, /3 And very few to love.4

2

A Violet by a mossy stone5Half-hidden from the Eye!6d —Fair, as a star^when only one , /7 Is shining in the sky!8

3

Sheliv’d*liv’d^dw unknown, and few could know 9 When Lucy ceas’d to be;10But she is in her Grave, and Oh!11 The difference to me.12

*not in Italics

55

2

“Dost thou presume my course to block?11“ Off, off! or, puny Thing!12“ I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock13“ To which thy fibres cling.”14The Flood was tyrannous and strong;15The patient Briar suffer’d long,16Nor did he utter groan or sigh,17Hoping the danger would be pass’d:18But seeing no relief, at last19He ventur’d to reply.20

3

“Ah!” said the Briar, “Blame me not!21“ Why should we dwell in strife?22“ We who in this, our natal spot,23“ Once liv’d a happy life!24“ You stirr’d me on my rocky bed—25“ What pleasure thro’ my veins you spread!26“ The Summer long from day to day27“ My leaves you freshen’d and bedew’d;28“ Nor was it common gratitude29“ That did your cares repay.30

56

4

“ When Spring came on with bud and bell,31“ Among these rocks did I32“ Before you hang my wreath to tell33“ That gentle days were nigh!34“ And in the sultry summer hours35“ I shelter’d you with leaves and flowers;36“ And in my leaves^now shed and gone^, /, /37/;/L“The linnet lodg’d^and for us two38/,“ Chaunted his pretty songs^when you Y/39“ Had little voice or none.40

5

“ But now proud thoughts are in your breast—41“ What grief is mine you see.42“ Ah! would you think, ev’n yet how blest43“ Together we might be!44“ Though of both leaf and flower bereft,45“ Some ornaments to me are left—46“ Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,47“ With which I in my humble way48“ Would deck you many a Winter’s day,49“ A happy Eglantine!”50

57
6

What more he said, I cannot tell.51The stream came thundering down the dell^, /52And gallop’d loud and fast;63I listen’d, nor aught else could hear,64^— The Briar quak’d^and much I fear,65Those accents were his last.66

58

The OAK and the BROOM,

A PASTORAL.

1

His simple truths did Andrew glean1Beside the babbling rills;2A careful student he had been3Among the woods and hills.4/,One winter’s night^when through the Trees5The wind was thundering, on his knees6His youngest born did Andrew hold:7And while the rest, a ruddy quire^, /8Were seated round their blazing fire,9This Tale the Shepherd told.10

59

I saw a crag, a lofty stone11As ever tempest beat!12Out of its head an Oak had grown,13A Broom out of its feet.14The time was March, a chearful noon—15The thaw-wind with the breath of June16Breath’d gently from the warm South-west;17/, When^in a voice sedate with age^, /18This Oak, half giant and half sage,19His neighbour thus address’d.20

3

“Eight weary weeks, thro’ rock and clay,21“ Along this mountain’s edge22“ The Frost hath wrought both night and day,23“ Wedge driving after wedge.24/!“ Look up, and think, above your head25“ What trouble surely will be bred;26“ Last night I heard a crash—’tis true,27“ The splinters took another road—28“ I see them yonder—what a load29“ For such a Thing as you!30

60

4

“ You are preparing as before31“ To deck your slender shape;32“ And yet, just three years back—no more—33“ You had a strange escape.34“Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,35“ It came, you know, with fire and smoke36“ And^hitherward it bent its way.^dwhither did it bend its way.37 “ This pond’rous block was caught by me, B/38“ And o’er your head, as you may see,39“ ’Tis hanging to this day.!/40

5

“ The Thing had better been asleep,41“ Whatever thing it were,42“ Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,Dog, or Sheep,^dw43“ That first did plant you there.44“ For you and your green twigs decoy45“ The little witless Shepherd-boy56“ To come and slumber in your bower;57/,“ And^trust me, on some sultry noon,58“ Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!59“ Will perish in one hour.60

61

6

“From me this friendly warning take”—51—The Broom began to doze,52And thus to keep herself awake53Did gently interpose.54“ “ My thanks for your discourse are due;55“ That it is true, and more than true,56“ I know and I have known it long;56“ Frail is the bond, by which we hold58“ Our being, be we young or old,59“ Wise, foolish, weak or strong.60

7

“ Disasters, do the best we can,61“ Will reach both great and small;62“ And he is oft the wisest man,63“ Who is not wise at all.64“ For me, why should I wish to roam?65“ This spot is my paternal home,66“ It is my pleasant Heritage;67“ My Father many a happy year68“ Here spread his careless blossoms, here69“ Attain’d a good old age.70

62

8

“ Even such as his may be my lot.71“ What cause have I to haunt72“ My heart with terrors? Am I not73“ In truth a favor’d plant!74“ The Spring for me a garland weaves75“ Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, ;/76“ And, when the Frost is in the sky,77“ My branches are so fresh and gay78“ That You might look^on me and say^at/, /79/P“ This plant can never die.80

9

/B“ The butterfly, all green and gold,81“ To me hath often flown,82“ Here in my Blossoms to behold83“ Wings lovely as his own.84“ When grass is chill with rain or dew,85“ Beneath my shade the mother ewe E/86/L“ Lies with her infant lamb; I see87“ The love, they to each other make,79“ And the sweet joy, which they partake,89“ It is a joy to me.”90

63

10

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;91The Broom might have pursued92Her speech, until the stars of night93Their journey had renew’d.94But in the branches of the Oak95Two Ravens now began to croak96Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;97And to her own green bower the breeze98That instant brought two stripling Bees99To feed and murmur there.100

11

One night the Wind came from the North101And blew a furious blast,;/102At break of day I ventur’d forth103And near the Cliff I pass’d.104The storm had fall’n upon the Oak105And struck him with a mighty stroke,106And whirl’d and whirl’d him far away;107And in one hospitable Cleft108The little careless Broom was left109To live for many a day.110

Before the above Poem Insert the
“Forsaken Indian” from the first
volume^dw

64

LUCY GRAY.

1

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,;/1/, And^when I cross’d the Wild,2I chanc’d to see at break of day3The solitary Child.4

2

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;5She dwelt on a ^wide Moor, wide^dw6—^ The sweetest Thing that ever grew7Beside a human door!8

3

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,9The Hare upon the Green;10But the sweet face of Lucy Gray11Will never more be seen.12

65

4

“To-night will be a stormy night,^—13“ You to the Town must go,;/14“ And take a lantern, Child, to light15“ Your Mother thro’ the snow.”16

5

“That, Father! will I gladly do;17“ ’Tis scarcely afternoon—18“ The Minster-clock has just struck two,19“ And yonder is the Moon.”20

6

At this the Father rais’d his hook21And snapp’d a faggot-band;22He plied his work, and Lucy took23The lantern in her hand.24

7

Not blither is the mountain roe,:/25With many a wanton stroke26Her feet disperse the powd’ry snow^, /27That rises up like smoke.28

66

8

The storm came on before its time,:/29She wander’d up and down,;/30And many a hill did Lucy climb^, /31But never reach’d the Town.32

9

The wretched Parents all that night33Went shouting far and wide;34But there was neither sound nor sight35To serve them for a guide.36

10

At day-break on a hill they stood37That overlook’d the Moor;38/w And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood^, /39A furlong from their door.40

11

And now they homeward turn’d, and cry’d41“In Heaven we all shall meet! ”^42—^ When in the snow the Mother spied43The print of Lucy’s feet.44

67

12

Then downward from the steep hill’s edge45They track’d the footmarks small;46And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,47And by the long stone-wall; 48

13

And then an open field they cross’d,:/49The marks were still the same;50They track’d them on, nor ever lost,;/51And to the Bridge they came.52

14

They follow’d from the snowy bank53The footmarks, one by one,54Into the middle of the plank,;/55And further there were none.56

15

—^ Yet some maintain that to this day57She is a living Child,;/58That you may see sweet Lucy Gray59Upon the lonesome Wild.60

68

16

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,61And never looks behind;62And sings a solitary song63That whistles in the wind.64

69

76



1

’Tis said, that some have died for love:1And here and there a church-yard grave is found2In the cold North’s unhallow’d ground,3/M Because the wretched man himself had slain,4His love was such a grievous pain.5And there is one whom I five years have known;6He dwells alone7/: Upon Helvellyn’s side.8He loved——The pretty Barbara died,9And thus he makes his moan:10Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid11When thus his moan he made.12

77

2

/d"^ Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak^!/13Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,14That in some other way yon smoke15May mount into the sky!16The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart:17I look—the sky is empty space;18I know not what I trace;19/, But^when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.20

3

O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,21When will that dying murmur be suppress’d?22Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,23It robs my heart of rest.24Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,25Into yon row of willows flit,26Upon that alder sit;27Or sing another song, or chuse another tree^./28

78

4

/R Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,29And there for ever be thy waters chain’d!30For thou dost haunt the air with sounds31That cannot be sustain’d;32If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough33Headlong yon waterfall must come,34Oh let it then be dumb!—35/R Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.36

5

Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers37(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale)38Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,39And stir not in the gale.40For thus to see thee nodding in the air,41To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,42Thus rise and thus descend,43Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.^”44

79

6

Theman who makes this feverish complaint M/45Is one of giant stature, who could dance46Equipp’d from head to foot in iron mail.47Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine48To store up kindred hours for me, thy face49Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk !/50Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know51Such happiness as I have known to-day.52

80

POOR SUSAN.

1

At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,1There’s a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:2/, Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot^and has heard3In the silence of morning the song of the bird. /B4

2

’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees5A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;6Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,7And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.8

3

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,9Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail,;/10And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,11^only^dw The only one^dwelling on earth that she loves. D/12

81

4

She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, :—/13The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;14The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,15And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes.16

5

Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more17The house of thy Father will open its door,;/18And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,19May’st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.20

82

INSCRIPTION

For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert’s
Island, Derwent-Water.

/T If thou in the dear love of some one friend F/1Hast been so happy, that thou know’st what thoughts2Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love3Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence4This quiet spot.——St. Herbert hither came^, /5And here, for many seasons, from the world6Remov’d, and the affections of the world7He dwelt in solitude. He living here,But he had left^dw8This island’s sole inhabitant! had left9A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov’d10/./A As his own soul;and^when within his cave , /11Alone he knelt before the crucifix12/L While o’er the lake the cataract of Lodore1383Peal’d to his orisons, and when he pac’d14Along the beach of this small isle and thought15Of his Companion, he had pray’dwould pray that both16Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain17So pray’d he:—as our Chronicles report,18Though here the Hermit number’d his last days, d/19Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, F/20/M Those holy men both died in the same hour.20

84

Lines written with a pencil upon a
Stone in the wall of the House (an Out-
-house on the Island at Grasmere.^dw

INSCRIPTION

For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen1Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain’d2Proportions more harmonious, and approach’d3To somewhat of a closer fellowship4With the ideal grace. Yet as it is5Do take it in good part; for he, the poor6Vitruvius of our village, had no help7/C From the great city; never on the leaves8Of red Morocco folio saw display’d9The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts10Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,11Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.12/P It is a homely pile, yet to these walls1385The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here14The new-dropp’d lamb finds shelter from the wind.15And hither does one Poet sometimes row16/P His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled B/17With plenteous store of heath and wither’d fern,18(^ A lading which he with his sickle cuts19Among the mountains, )^ and beneath this roof21He makes his summer couch, and here at noon22Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn^unshorn^dw, the sheep S/23Panting beneath the burthen of their wool24Lie round him, even as if they were a part25/H Of his own household: nor, while from his bed26He through that door-place looks toward the lake27And to the stirring breezes, does he want28Creations lovely as the work of sleep,29Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.30

86

To a SEXTON.

1

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.1Wherefore, Sexton, piling still2/B In thy bone-house bone on bone?3’Tis already like a hill4In a field of battle made,5Where three thousand skulls are laid.6——These died in peace each with the other,7Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.8

2

Mark the spot to which I point!9From this platform eight feet square10Take not even a finger-joint:11Andrew’s whole fire-side is there.12

87

2

Here, alone, before thine eyes,13Simon’s sickly Daughter lies^, /14From weakness, now, and pain defended,15Whom he twenty winters tended.16

3

Look but at the gardener’s pride,—/17How he glories, when he sees18/L Roses, lilies, side by side,19Violets in families.!/20By the heart of Man, his tears,21By his hopes and by his fears,22Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden23Of a far superior garden.24

4

Thus then, each to other dear,25Let them all in quiet lie,26Andrew there and Susan here,27Neighbours in mortality.28

88

4

/, And^should I live through sun and rain29Seven widow’d years without my Jane,30O Sexton, do not then remove her,31Let one grave hold the Lov’d and Lover!32

89

ANDREW JONES.

1

“ I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed1“ His children up to waste and pillage.2/,“ I wish the press-gang^ or the drum3/,would^ww“^ With its tantara sound rattling ^ww^music^ww would come,d/4And sweep him from the village! ^”5

2

I said not this, because he loves6Through the long day to swear and tipple;7But for the poor dear sake of one8To whom a foul deed he had done,9A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!10

90

3

For this poor crawling helpless wretch11Some Horseman who was passing by,d/12A penny on the ground had thrown;13But the poor Cripple was alone14And could not stoop—no help was nigh.15

4

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground^, /16For it had long been droughty weather :17So with his staff the Cripple wrought18Among the dust till he had brought19The halfpennies together.20

5

It chanc’d that Andrew pass’d that way21Just at that time; and there he found22The Cripple in the mid-day heat23Standing alone, and at his feet24He saw the penny on the ground.25

91

6

He ^stopp’d^stoop’d—^dw and took the penny up:26And when the Cripple nearer drew,27Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown,28“ What a man finds is all his own,29“ And so, my Friend, good day to you.”30

7

Andhence I said, that Andrew’s boys31Will all be train’d to waste and pillage;32And wish’d the press-gang, or the drum33With its tantara sound, wouldWould with its rattling music come^dw34And sweep him from the village!35

92

This Poem not to be
printed here.

The TWO THIEVES,

Or the last Stage of AVARICE.

1

Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine^, /1And the skill which he learn’d on the Banks of the Tyne;!/2When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose^, /3For I’d take my last leave both of verse and of prose.4

2

What feats would I work with my magical hand!5Book-learning and books should be banish’d the land^:/6And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls^!/7/A Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.8

93

3

The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair^;/9Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care,;/10For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves,11Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!12

4

Little Dan is unbreech’d, he is three birth-days old,;/13His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,;/14\ There’s^are^dw ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather15Between them, and both go a stealing together.16

5

With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?17Is a cart-load of peats at an old Woman’s door?18Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,19And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.20

6

Old Daniel begins, he stops short^ and his eye —/21Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.22’Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,23But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.24

94

7

Dan once had a heart which was mov’d by the wires25Of manifold pleasures and many desires:26And what if he cherish’d his purse? ’Twas no more27Than treading a path trod by thousands before.28

8

/; ’Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one29Who went something farther than others have gone;:/30And now with old Daniel you see how it fares^;/31You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.32

9

/P /: The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun33Has peer’d o’er the beeches their work is begun:34/, And yet^into whatever sin they may fall,35This Child but half knows it and that not at all.36

10

They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,37And each in his turn is both leader and led;37/, And^wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,39Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.40

95

11

Neither check’d by the rich nor the needy they roam,;/41For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home; , /42Who will gladly repair all the damage that’s done,;/43And three, were it ask’d, would be render’d for one.44

12

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey’d,45I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side: B/46Long yet may’st thou live, for a teacher we see47That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.48

96

This Poem not to be printed
here.

1

A whirl-blast from behind the hill1Rush’d o’er the wood with startling sound:2Then all at once the air was still,3And showers of hail-stones patter’d round.4Where leafless Oaks tower’d high above,5I sate within an undergrove6Of tallest hollies, tall and green,;/7A fairer bower was never seen.8From year to year the spacious floor9With wither’d leaves is cover’d o’er,10You could not lay a hair between:11And all the year the bower is green.12But see! where’er the hailstones drop13The wither’d leaves all skip and hop,14There’s not a breeze—no breath of air—15Yet here, and there, and every where1697Along the floor, beneath the shade17By those embowering hollies made,18The leaves in myriads jump and spring,19As if with pipes and music rare20Some Robin Good-fellow were there,21And all those leaves, that jump and spring,22Were each a joyous, living thing.23

2

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease^, /24That I may never cease to find,25Even in appearances like these26Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!27

98

S O N G

for the

WANDERING JEW.

1

Though the torrents from their fountains1Roar down many a craggy steep,2Yet they find among the mountains3Resting-places calm and deep.4

2

Though almost with eagle pinion5O’er the rocks the Chamois roam,6Yet he has some small dominion7/, /, Which^no doubt^he calls his home.8

3

If on windy days the Raven9Gambol like a dancing skiff,10Not the less he loves his haven11On the bosom of the cliff.12

103

R U T H.

1

When Ruth was left half desolate,1Her Father took another Mate;2Ruth^dw And so^Ruth, not seven years old,3AThe A slighted Child at her own will4Went wandering over dale and hill^, /5In thoughtless freedom bold.6

2

And she had made a pipe of straw^P/ , /7And from that oaten pipe could draw P/8All And sounds of winds and floods;9/B Had built a bower upon the green,10As if she from her birth had been11An Infant of the woods.12

3

Beneath her Father’s roof, alone^dwShe seem’d to live; her thoughts her own;^dwHerself her own delight:^dwPleas’d with herself, nor sad nor gay,^dwShe pass’d her time: and in this way^dwGrew up in to Woman’s height.^dw

104

3

There came a Youth from Georgia’s shore,—/13A military Casque he wore14With splendid feathers drest;15He brought them from the Cherokees;16The feathers nodded in the breeze17And made a gallant crest.18

4

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:19Ah no! he spake the English tongue^, /20And bare a Soldier’s name;21/, And^when America was free22From battle and from jeopardy^, /23He cross the ocean came.24

5

With hues of genius on his cheek25In finest tones the Youth could speak.26—While he was yet a Boy27The moon, the glory of the sun,28And streams that murmur as they run29Had been his dearest joy.30

105

6

He was a lovely Youth! I guess31The panther in the wilderness32Was not so fair as he;33And when he chose to sport and play,34No dolphin ever was so gay35Upon the tropic sea.36

7

Among the Indians he had fought,;/37And with him many tales he brought38Of pleasure and of fear,;/39Such tales as told to any Maid40By such a Youth in the green shade41Were perilous to hear.42

8

He told of Girls, a happy rout,!/43Who quit their fold with dance and shout44Their pleasant Indian Town45To gather strawberries all day long,46Returning with a choral song47When day-light is gone down.48

106

9

He spake of plants divine and strange49/hour That ev’ry^day their blossoms change,50Ten thousand lovely hues!51With budding, fading, faded flowers52They stand the wonder of the bowers53From morn to evening dews.54

Of march & ambush siege &10

He told of the Magnolia,† spread55High as a cloud, high over head!56The Cypress and her spire,57/—^Of *flowers that with one scarlet gleam58Cover a hundred leagues and seem59To set the hills on fire.60

†Magnolia grandiflora.*The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which
are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the
Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned
by Bartram in his Travels.

Whatever in those climes I found^dwIrregular in sight or sound^dwdwDid to my mind impart^dwA kindred impulse, seem’d allied^dwTo my own powers & justified^dwThe workings of my heart.^dw

Nor less to feed unhallow’d thought^dwThe beauteous forms of Nature wrought^dwFair trees and lovely flowers^dwThe breezes their own languor lent^dwThe stars had feelings which they sent^dwInto those magic bowers^dw

If in my worst pursuits I ween^dwThat often there did intervene^dwPure hopes of high intent^dwMy passions amid forms so fair^dwAnd stately, wanted not their share^dwOf noble sentiment.^dw

So was it then an and so i s now:^dwFor, Ruth, with thee I know not how^dwI feel my spirit burn^dwEven as the East when day comes forth^dwThe daylight^morning^dw doth return.^dw

It is a purer, better mind^dwO Maiden, innocent and kind!^dwWhat sights I might have seen!^dwEven now upon my eyes they break^dwAnd thenthe youthhe again began to speak^dwOf Lands where he had been.^dw

He told of the Magnolia, spread^dwHigh as a cloud, high over head;^dwThe Cypress and her spire;^dw—Of flowers that with one scarlet g^dwCover a hundred leagues and seem^dwTo set the hills on fire.^dw

107

11

The Youth of green Savannahs spake,61And many an endless^endless lake^, / , /62With all its fairy crowds63/, Of islands^that together lie64As quietly as spots of sky65Among the evening clouds:66

12

And then he said, “How sweet it were67A fisher or a hunter there,68A gardener in the shade,69Still wandering with an easy mind70To build a household fire^and find , /71A home in every glade.72

13

What days and what sweet years! Ah me!73 Our life were life indeed, with thee74So pass’d in quiet bliss,75And all the while” said he “to know76That we were in a world of woe,77On such an earth as this!78

108

14

And then he sometimes interwove79Dear thoughts about a Father’s love,80“For there,” said he, “are spun81Around the heart such tender ties^, /82That our own children to our eyes83Are dearer than the sun.84

15

Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me85My helpmate in the woods to be,86Our shed at night to rear;87Or run, my own adopted bride, B88H A sylvan huntress at my side89And drive the flying deer.90

16

Beloved Ruth!” No more he said^./91Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed92A solitary tear,93She thought again—and did agree94With him to sail across the sea,95And drive the flying deer.96

109

17

“And now, as fitting is and right,97We in the Church our faith will plight,98A Husband and a Wife.”99Even so they did; and I may say100That to sweet Ruth that happy day101Was more than human life.102

18

Through dream and vision did she sink,103Delighted all the while to think104/, That^on those lonesome floods^, /105And green Savannahs^she should share , /106His board with lawful joy, and bear107His name in the wild woods.108

19

But, as you have before been told,109This Stripling, sportive^gay^and bold, , / , /110And, with his dancing crest,111So beautiful, through savage lands112Had roam’d about with vagrant bands113Of Indians in the West.114

110

20

The wind, the tempest roaring high,115The tumult of a tropic sky116Might well be dangerous food117For him, a Youth to whom was given118So much of earth so much of Heaven,119And such impetuous blood.120

21

/Whatever in those climes heI found121Irregular in sight or sound122Did to his mind impart123A kindred impulse, seem’d allied124To his own powers, and justified125The workings of his heart.126

22

Nor less to feed voluptuousunhallow’d ^dwthought127The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,128Fair trees and lovely flowers;129The breezes their own languor lent,;/130The stars had feelings which they sent131Into those magic bowers.132

111

23

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween,133That sometimes there did intervene134Pure hopes of high intent:135/,For passions link’d to^My passions amid forms so fair136And stately, needs must havesometimes had their share137Of noble sentiment.138

24

But ill he liv’d^Ill did he live, much evil saw139Ill did he live much evil saw139With men to whom no better law140Nor better life was known;141Deliberately and undeceiv’d142Those wild men’s vices he receiv’d,143And gave them back his own.144

25

His genius and his moral frame145Were thus impair’d, and he became146The slave of low desires;147/M A man who without self-controul148Would seek what the degraded soul149Unworthily admires.150

112

26

And yet he with no feign’d delight151Had woo’d the Maiden, day and night152Had lov’d her, night and morn;153What could he less than love a Maid154Whose heart with so much nature play’d^?/155/. So kind and so forlorn?156

27

But now the pleasant dream was gone,;/157No hope, no wish remain’d, not one,158They stirr’d him now no more,;/159New objects did new pleasure give,160And once again he wish’d to live161As lawless as before.162

28

/,Meanwhile^as thus with him it fared,163They for the voyage were prepared164And went to the sea-shore,;/165But, when they thither came, the Youth166Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth167Could never find him more.168

113

29

“God help thee Ruth!”—Such pains she had169That she in half a year was mad170And in a prison hous’d,;/171And there, exulting in her wrongs,172Among the music of her songs173She fearfully carouz’d.174

30

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,175Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,176Nor pastimes of the May,177—^They all were with her in her cell,;/178And a wild brook with chearful knell179Did o’er the pebbles play.180

31

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain181There came a respite to her pain,182She from her prison fled;183But of the Vagrant none took thought,;/184And where it liked her best she sought185Her shelter and her bread.186

114

32

Among the fields she breath’d again:187The master-current of her brain188Ran permanent and free,;/189And to the pleasant^And coming to the Banks of Tone*190She took her way, to^There did she rest & dwell alone191Under the greenwood tree.192

33

pain^The engines of her^grief, the tools193That shap’d her sorrow, rocks and pools,194And airs that gently stir195The vernal leaves, she loved them still,196Nor ever tax’d them with the ill197Which had been done to her.198

*The Tone is a River of Somersetshire^at no great dis- , /
tance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which
are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beau-
tiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice
woods.115

34

A Barn her winter bed supplies,;/199But till the warmth of summer skies200And summer days is gone,201(And in this tale we all agree)202She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,203And other home hath none.204

X

35

If she is press’d by want of food205She from her dwelling in the wood206Repairs to a road side,;/207And there she begs at one steep place,208Where up and down with easy pace209The horsemen-travellers ride.210

31

/P That oaten pipe of hers is mute^, /211/; Or thrown away, but with a flute212Her loneliness she cheers;./213This flute made of a hemlock stalk214At evening in his homeward walk215The Quantock Woodman hears.216

*The Neighbours grieve for her, & say^dwThat she will, long before her day,^dwBe broken down & old.^dwSore aches she needs must have! but less^dwOf mind, than body’s wretchedness,^dwFrom damp, & rain, & cold.^dw

116

37

/, I, too^have pass’d her on the hills217Setting her little water-mills218By spouts and fountains wild,—/219Such small machinery as she turn’d220Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d^, /221A young and happy Child!222

38

Farewel! and when thy days are told223Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mold224Thy corpse shall buried be,;/225For thee a funeral bell shall ring,226And all the congregation sing227A Christian psalm for thee.228

121

3

—When through this little wreck of fame,9Cypher and syllable, thine eye !/10Has travell’d down to Matthew’s name,11Pause with no common sympathy.12

4

And^if a sleeping tear should wake^, /13Then be it neither check’d nor stay’d:14For Matthew a request I make15Which for himself he had not made.16

5

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o’er,17Is silent as a standing pool,;/18Far from the chimney’s merry roar,19And murmur of the village school.20

6

The sighs which Matthew heav’d were sighs21Of one tir’d out with fun and madness;22The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes23Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.24

122

7

, / , / Yet^sometimes^when the secret cup25Of still and serious thought went round^, /26It seem’d as if he drank it up,—/27He felt with spirit so profound.28

8

—Thou soul of God’s best earthly mould,!/29/! Thou happy soul, and can it be30That these two words of glittering gold31Are all that must remain of thee?32

123

the

Two APRIL MORNINGS.

1

We walk’d along, while bright and red1Uprose the morning sun,;/2And Matthew stopp’d, he look’d, and said,3“The will of God be done!”4

2

A village Schoolmaster was he,5With hair of glittering grey;6As blithe a man as you could see7On a spring holiday.8

9

And on that morning, through the grass,9And by the steaming rills,10We travell’d merrily^to pass , /11A day among the hills.12

124

4

“Our work,” said I, “was well begun;13“Then, from thy breast what thought,14“ Beneath so beautiful a sun,15“ So sad a sigh has brought?^”16

5

A second time did Matthew stop,;/17/,And^fixing still his eye18Upon the eastern mountain-top^, /19To me he made reply.20

6

“ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft21“ Brings fresh into my mind22“ A day like this which I have left23“ Full thirty years behind.24

7

And on that slope of springing corn25The self-same crimson hue26Fell from the sky that April morn,27The same which now I view!28

7

“And just above yon slope of corn^dw25“Such colours, and no other,^dw26“Were in the sky, that April Morn^dw27“Of this the very brother.^dw28

125

8

“ With rod and line my silent sport29“ I plied by Derwent’s wave,;/30“ And, coming to the church, stopp’d short31“ Beside my Daughter’s grave.32

9

“ Nine summers had she scarcely seen^, /33“ The pride of all the vale;34“ And then she sang!—she would have been35“ A very nightingale.36

10

“ Six feet in earth my Emma lay,;/37“ And yet I lov’d her more,38“ For so it seem’d, than till that day39“ I e’er had lov’d before.40

11

“ And, turning from her grave, I met41“ Beside the church-yard Yew42“ A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet43“ With points of morning dew.44

126

12

“ A basket on her head she bare,;/45“ Her brow was smooth and white,;:/46“ To see a Child so very fair,47“ It was a pure delight!48

13

“ No fountain from its rocky cave49“ E’er tripp’d with foot so free,;/50“ She seem’d as happy as a wave51“ That dances on the sea.52

14

“ There came from me a sigh of pain53“ Which I could ill confine;54“ I look’d at her and look’d again;:/55“ —And did not wish her mine.^”56

15

Matthew is in his grave, yet now57Methinks I see him stand,58As at that moment, with his bough59Of wilding in his hand.60

127

The FOUNTAIN,

A Conversation.

1

We talk’d with open heart, and tongue1Affectionate and true,;/2A pair of Friends, though I was young,3And Matthew seventy-two.4

2

We lay beneath a spreading oak,5Beside a mossy seat,;/6And from the turf a fountain broke,7And gurgled at our feet.8

3

“ Now, Matthew, let us try to match !/9“ This water’s pleasant tune10“ With some old Border-song, or catch C/11That suits a summer’s noon.12

128

4

“ Or of the Church-clock and the chimes13“ Sing here beneath the shade,14“ That half-mad thing of witty rhymes15“ Which you last April made! ”16

5

On^In silence Matthew lay, and eyed17The spring beneath the tree;18And thus the dear old Man replied,19The grey-hair’d Man of glee.20

6

“ Down to the vale this water steers,21“ How merrily it goes!22“ ’Twill murmur on a thousand years,23“ And flow as now it flows.24

7

“ And here, on this delightful day,25“ I cannot chuse but think26“ How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay27“ Beside this Fountain’s brink.28

129

8

“ My eyes are dim with childish tears,29“ My heart is idly stirr’d,30“ For the same sound is in my ears,31“ Which in those days I heard.32

9

“ Thus fares it still in our decay:33“ And yet the wiser mind34“ Mourns less for what age takes away35“ Than what it leaves behind.36

10

/B“ The blackbird in the summer trees,37/L “ The lark upon the hill,38“ Let loose their carols when they please,39“ Are quiet when they will.40

11

“ With Nature never do they wage41“ A foolish strife; they see42“ A happy youth, and their old age43“ Is beautiful and free:44

130

12

“ But we are press’d by heavy laws,;/45“ And often, glad no more,46“ We wear a face of joy, because47“ We have been glad of yore.48

13

“ If there is one who need bemoan49“ His kindred laid in earth,50“ The houshold hearts that were his own,51“ It is the man of mirth.52

14

“ My days, my Friend, are almost gone,53“ My life has been approv’d,54“ And many love me, but by none ;/55“ Am I enough belov’d.”56

15

“ Now both himself and me he wrongs,57“ The man who thus complains!58“ I live and sing my idle songs59“ Upon these happy plains,60

133

1

Motley accoutrements! of power to smile d/10At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,11More ragged than need was. Among the woods,12And o’er the pathless rocks, I forc’d my way13Until, at length, I came to one dear nook14Unvisited, where not a broken bough15Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign16Of devastation, but the hazels rose17Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,18A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,19Breathing with such suppression of the heart20As joy delights in; and with wise restraint21Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed22The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate23Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play’d;24A temper known to those, who, after long25And weary expectation, have been bless’d26With sudden happiness beyond all hope.—27—Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves28The violets of five seasons re-appear29

134

1

And fade, unseen by any human eye,;/30Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on31Forever, and I saw the sparkling foam,32And with my cheek on one of those green stones33That, fleec’d with moss, beneath the shady trees,34/,Lay round me^scatter’d like a flock of sheep,35I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,36In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay37; Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure^, /38The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,39Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,40And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,41And dragg’d to earth both branch and bough, with crash42And merciless ravage; and the shady nook43Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower^, /44Deform’d and sullied, patiently gave up45Their quiet being: and^unless I now , /46Confound my present feelings with the past,47Even then, when from the bower I turn’d away,d/48Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings^, /49

135

1

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld50The silent trees and the intruding sky.—51

2

Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades52/; In gentleness of heart^with gentle hand53Touch,——for there is a Spirit in the woods.54

136

1

Three years she grew in sun and shower,1Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower2On earth was never sown;3This Child I to myself will take,;/4She shall be mine, and I will make5A Lady of my own.6

2

Her teacher I myself will be,^dw7Myself will to my darling be7/;Both law and impulse,^She is my darling;—^dwand with me8/, The Girl^in rock and plain,9In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,10Shall feel an overseeing power11To kindle or restrain.12

137

3

She shall be sportive as the fawn F/13That wild with glee across the lawn14Or up the mountain springs,;/15And hers shall be the breathing balm,16And hers the silence and the calm17Of mute insensate things.18

4

/C The floating clouds their state shall lend19/; To her, for her the willow bend,;/20Nor shall she fail to see21Even in the motions of the storm S/22Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form^dw23A beauty that shall mould her form23By silent sympathy.24

3

SS The stars of midnight shall be dear25; To her, and she shall lean her ear26In many a secret place27/R Where rivulets dance their wayward round,28And beauty born of murmuring sound29Shall pass into her face.30

138

6

And vital feelings of delight31Shall rear her form to stately height,32Her virgin bosom swell,;/33Such thoughts to Lucy I will give34While she and I together live35Here in this happy dell. ”^/D/36

7

Thus Nature spake—The work was done—37How soon my Lucy’s race was run!38She died and left to me39This heath, this calm and quiet scene,;/40The memory of what has been,41And never more will be.42