CONTENTS.

Page
Expostulation and Reply - - - - - 1
The Tables turned ; an Evening Scene, on the
same subject - - - - - - 4
Animal Tranquillity and Decay, a Sketch - 7
Goody Blake and Harry Gill - - - - 9
The Last of the Flock - - - - - 18
Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew tree which stands
near the Lake of Esthwaite - - - 24
The Foster-Mother’s Tale - - - - 28
The Thorn - - - - - - 35
We are Seven - - - - - - 51
Anecdote for Fathers - - - - - 56
Lines written at a small distance from my House,
and sent by my little Boy to the Person to
whom they are addressed - - - - 61
The Female Vagrant - - - - - 67
Lines written in early Spring - - - - 81
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman - - - 83
The Nightingale, written in April, 1798 - - 90
The Idiot Boy - - - - - - 99
Love - - - - - - - - 130
The Mad Mother - - - - - - 137
The Ancient Mariner - - - - - 145
Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey -191

PREFACE.

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 sen-
sation, 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 ii.

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, 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, iii.

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 iv.

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 re-act
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 sen-
sible, 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.

v.

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 Lucretius 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. They who have vi.

been accustomed to the gaudiness and inane
phraseology of many modern writers, if they
persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will,
no doubt, frequently have to struggle with feelings
of strangeness and aukwardness : they will look
round for poetry, and will be induced to inquire
by what species of courtesy these attempts can be
permitted to assume that title. I hope therefore
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, vii.

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 chuse incidents and
situations from common life, and to relate or
describe them, throughout, as far as was possible,
in a selection of language really used by men ;
and, at the same time, to throw over them a cer-
tain colouring of imagination, whereby ordinary
things should be presented to the mind in an
unusual way ; and, further, and above all, to
make these incidents and situations interesting
by tracing in them, truly though not ostenta-
tiously, the primary laws of our nature : chiefly,
as far as regards the manner in which we associate
ideas in a state of excitement. Low and rustic
life was generally chosen, because in that condi-
tion, the essential passions of the heart find a
better soil in which they can attain their maturity, viii.

are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and
more emphatic language; because in that con-
dition of life our elementary feelings co-exist in a
state of greater simplicity, and, consequently,
may be more accurately contemplated, and more
forcibly communicated ; because the manners of
rural life germinate from those elementary feel-
ings ; and, from the necessary character of rural
occupations, are more easily comprehended ; and
are more durable ; and lastly, because in that
condition 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 com-
municate with the best objects from which the
best part of language is originally derived ; and
because, from their rank in society and the same-
ness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being ix.

less under the influence 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.*

I cannot, however, be insensible of the present
* 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.x.

outcry against the triviality and meanness both of
thought and language, which some of my con-
temporaries have occasionally introduced into their
metrical compositions ; and I acknowledge, that
this defect, where it exists, is more dishonorable
to the Writer’s own character than false refine-
ment or arbitrary innovation, though I should con-
tend 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 distin-
guished 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 purpose 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 opi-
nion I am mistaken, I can have little right to the
name of a Poet. For all good poetry is the xi.

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 pos-
sessed 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 feelings ; 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, our feelings will be connected with im-
portant subjects, till at length, if we be ori-
ginally possessed of much sensibility, such habits
of mind will be produced, that, by obeying
blindly and mechanically the impulses of those
habits, we shall describe objects, and utter senti-
ments, of such a nature and in such connection
with each other, that the understanding of the xii.

being to whom we address ourselves, if he be in
a healthful state of association, must necessarily
be in some degree enlightened, 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 language somewhat
more appropriate, 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 endeavoured in these short essays to attain
by various means ; by tracing the maternal pas-
sion through many of its more subtle windings,
as in the poems of the Idiot Boy and the
Mad Mother ; by accompanying the last strug-
gles of a human being, at the approach of death, xiii

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 phi-
losophically, of moral attachment when early
associated with the great and beautiful 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 sen-
sations another and more salutary impression than
we are accustomed to receive from them. It has
also been part of my general purpose to attempt
to sketch characters under the influence of less
impassioned feelings, as in the Two April
Mornings, The Fountain, The Old Man
travelling, The two Thieves, &c. characters
of which the elements are simple, belongingxiv.

rather to nature than to manners, such as exist
now, and will probably always exist, and which
from their constitution may be distinctly and pro-
fitably contemplated. I will not abuse the in-
dulgence of my Reader by dwelling longer upon
this subject ; but it is proper that I should men-
tion one other circumstance which distinguishes
these Poems from the popular Poetry of the day ;
it is this, that the feeling therein developed gives
importance to the action and situation, and not
the action and situation to the feeling. My mean-
ing will be rendered perfectly intelligible by refer-
ing 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 xv.

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 being excited 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 xvi.

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 xvii.

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. The Reader
will find that personifications of abstract ideas
rarely occur in these volumes ; and, I hope, are
utterly rejected as an ordinary device to elevate xviii.

the style, and raise it above prose. I have pro-
posed to myself to imitate, and, as far as is pos-
sible, to adopt the very language of men ; and
assuredly such personifications do not make any
natural or regular part of that language. They
are, indeed, a figure of speech occasionally
prompted by passion, and I have made use of
them as such; but I have endeavoured utterly
to reject them as a mechanical device of style,
or as a family language which Writers in metre
seem to lay claim to by prescription. I have
wished to keep my Reader in the company of
flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I
shall interest him. I am, however, well aware
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 xix.

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
written than by informing him that I have at
all times endeavoured to look steadily at my sub-
ject, consequently, I hope 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 xx.

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 xxi

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 in-
teresting 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 com-
position 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 xxii.

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 be perceived that the only part of
this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines
printed in Italics : it is equally obvious, that, ex-
cept 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.

xxiii.

By the foregoing quotation I have shewn that
the language of Prose may yet be well adapted
to Poetry ; and I have previously asserted that
a large portion of the language of every good
poem can in no respect differ from that of good
Prose. I will go further. I do not doubt that
it may be safely affirmed, that there neither is,
nor can be, any essential difference between
the language of prose and metrical composi-
tion. We are fond of tracing the resemblance
between Poetry and Painting, and, accordingly,
we call them Sisters: but where shall we find
bonds of connection sufficiently strict to typify
the affinity betwixt metrical and prose com-
position ? 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 identi-
cal, not necessarily differing even in degree ; xxiv

*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 * 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 Matter of fact, or Science. The only strict antithesis
to Prose is Metre; nor is this, in truth, a strict antithesis;
because lines and passages of metre so naturally occur in
writing prose, that it would be scarcely possible to avoid
them, even were it desirable.xxv

affinity of metrical language with that of prose,
and paves the way for other artificial distinctions
which the mind voluntarily admits, I answer that
the language of such Poetry as I am recommend-
ing is, as far as is possible, a selection of the lan-
guage really spoken by men ; that this selection,
wherever it is made with true taste and feeling,
will of itself form a distinction far greater than
would at first be imagined, and will entirely sepa-
rate the composition from the vulgarity and mean-
ness of ordinary life; and, if metre be superadded
thereto, I believe that a dissimilitude will be
produced altogether sufficient for the gratifica-
tion of a rational mind. What other distinction
would we have? Whence is it to come? And
where is it to exist? Not, surely, where the
Poet speaks through the mouths of his characters :
it cannot be necessary here, either for elevation
of style, or any of its supposed ornaments : for,
if the Poet’s subject be judiciously chosen, it will xxvi

naturally, and upon fit occasion, lead him to
passions the language of which, if selected truly
and judiciously, must necessarily be dignified and
variegated, and alive with metaphors and figures.
I forbear to speak of an incongruity which would
shock the intelligent Reader, should the Poet
interweave any foreign splendour of his own
with that which the passion naturally suggests :
it is sufficient to say that such addition is un-
necessary. And, surely, it is more probable that
those passages, which with propriety abound with
metaphors and figures, will have their due effect,
if, upon other occasions where the passions are of
a milder character, the style also be subdued and
temperate.

But, as the pleasure which I hope to give by the
Poems I now present to the Reader must depend
entirely on just notions upon this subject, and,
as it is in itself of the highest importance to our xxvii

taste and moral feelings, I cannot content myself
with these detached remarks. And if, in what I
am about to say, it shall appear to some that my
labour is unnecessary, and that I am like a man
fighting a battle without enemies, I would remind
such persons, that, whatever may be the lan-
guage outwardly holden by men, a practical faith
in the opinions which I am wishing to establish
is almost unknown. If my conclusions are ad-
mitted, and carried as far as they must be carried
if admitted at all, our judgments concerning the
works of the greatest Poets both ancient and
modern will be far different from what they are
at present, both when we praise, and when we
censure : and our moral feelings influencing, and
influenced by these judgments will, I believe, be
corrected and purified.

Taking up the subject, then, upon general
grounds, I ask what is meant by the word Poet? xxviii.

What is a Poet ? To whom does he address
himself ? And what language is to be expected
from him ? He is a man speaking to men :
a man, it is true, endued with more lively sensi-
bility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, who has
a greater knowledge of human nature, and a more
comprehensive soul, than are supposed to be com-
mon among mankind ; a man pleased with his
own passions and volitions, and who rejoices
more than other men in the spirit of life that is
in him ; delighting to contemplate similar voli-
tions and passions as manifested in the goings-on
of the Universe, and habitually impelled to create
them where he does not find them. To these
qualities he has added a disposition to be affec-
ted more than other men by absent things as
if they were present ; an ability of conjuring
up in himself passions, which are indeed far
from being the same as those produced by real
events, yet (especially in those parts of the general xxix.

sympathy which are pleasing and delightful) do
more nearly resemble the passions produced by
real events, than any thing which, from the mo-
tions of their own minds merely, other men are
accustomed to feel in themselves ; whence, and
from practice, he has acquired a greater readiness
and power in expressing what he thinks and
feels, and especially those thoughts and feelings
which, by his own choice, or from the structure
of his own mind, arise in him without immediate
external excitement.

But, whatever portion of this faculty we may
suppose even the greatest Poet to possess, there
cannot be a doubt but that the language which
it will suggest to him, must, in liveliness and
truth, fall far short of that which is uttered by
men in real life, under the actual pressure of those
passions, certain shadows of which the Poet thus
produces, or feels to be produced, in himself. xxx.

However exalted a notion we would wish to
cherish of the character of a Poet, it is obvious,
that, while he describes and imitates passions, his
situation is altogether slavish and mechanical,
compared with the freedom and power of real
and substantial action and suffering. So that it
will be the wish of the Poet to bring his feelings
near to those of the persons whose feelings he
describes, nay, for short spaces of time perhaps,
to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even
confound and identify his own feelings with theirs;
modifying only the language which is thus sug-
gested to him, by a consideration that he describes
for a particular purpose, that of giving pleasure.
Here, then, he will apply the principle on which
I have so much insisted, namely, that of selec-
tion; on this he will depend for removing what
would otherwise be painful or disgusting in the
passion ; he will feel that there is no necessity to
trick out or to elevate nature : and, the more xxxi.

industriously he applies this principle, the deeper
will be his faith that no words, which his fancy
or imagination can suggest, will be to be com-
pared with those which are the emanations of
reality and truth.

But it may be said by those who do not object
to the general spirit of these remarks, that, as it
is impossible for the Poet to produce upon all
occasions language as exquisitely fitted for the
passion as that which the real passion itself sug-
gests, it is proper that he should consider himself
as in the situation of a translator, who deems
himself justified when he substitutes excellences
of another kind for those which are unattainable
by him ; and endeavours occasionally to surpass
his original, in order to make some amends for
the general inferiority to which he feels that he
must submit. But this would be to encourage
idleness and unmanly despair. Further, it is the xxxii.

language of men who speak of what they do not
understand ; who talk of Poetry as of a matter
of amusement and idle pleasure ; who will con-
verse with us as gravely about a taste for Poetry,
as they express it, as if it were a thing as indiffer-
ent as a taste for Rope-dancing, or Frontiniac or
Sherry. Aristotle, I have been told, hath said,
that Poetry is the most philosophic of all writing :
it is so : its object is truth, not individual and
local, but general, and operative; not standing
upon external testimony, but carried alive into the
heart by passion ; truth which is its own testi-
mony, which gives strength and divinity to the
tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them
from the same tribunal. Poetry is the image of
man and nature. The obstacles which stand in
the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and His-
torian, and of their consequent utility, are incal-
culably greater than those which are to be encoun-
tered by the Poet who has an adequate notion of xxxiii.

the dignity of his art. The Poet writes under one
restriction only, namely, that of the necessity of
giving immediate pleasure to a human Being pos-
sessed of that information which may be expected
from him, not as a lawyer, a physician, a mari-
ner, an astronomer or a natural philosopher, but
as a Man. Except this one restriction, there
is no object standing between the Poet and the
image of things; between this, and the
Biographer and Historian there are a thou-
sand.

Nor let this necessity of producing immediate
pleasure be considered as a degradation of the
Poet’s art. It is far otherwise. It is an acknow-
ledgment of the beauty of the universe, an ac-
knowledgment the more sincere because it is not
formal, but indirect; it is a task light and easy
to him who looks at the world in the spirit of
love : further, it is a homage paid to the native xxxiv.

and naked dignity of man, to the grand elemen-
tary principle of pleasure, by which he knows,
and feels, and lives, and moves. We have no
sympathy but what is propagated by pleasure :
I would not be misunderstood ; but wherever we
sympathize with pain it will be found that the
sympathy is produced and carried on by subtle
combinations with pleasure. We have no know-
ledge, that is, no general principles drawn from
the contemplation of particular facts, but what
has been built up by pleasure, and exists in us by
pleasure alone. The Man of Science, the Che-
mist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and
disgusts they may have had to struggle with,
know and feel this. However painful may be the
objects with which the Anatomist’s knowledge is
connected, he feels that his knowledge is plea-
sure ; and where he has no pleasure he has no
knowledge. What then does the Poet? He
considers man and the objects that surround him xxxv.

as acting and re-acting upon each other, so as to
produce an infinite complexity of pain and plea-
sure ; he considers man in his own nature and in
his ordinary life as contemplating this with a cer-
tain quantity of immediate knowledge, with
certain convictions, intuitions, and deductions
which by habit become of the nature of intuitions;
he considers him as looking upon this complex
scene of ideas and sensations, and finding every
where objects that immediately excite in him sym-
pathies which, from the necessities of his na-
ture, are accompanied by an overbalance of
enjoyment.

To this knowledge which all men carry about
with them, and to these sympathies in which
without any other discipline than that of our
daily life we are fitted to take delight, the Poet
principally directs his attention. He considers
man and nature as essentially adapted to each other, xxxvi.

and the mind of man as naturally the mirror of
the fairest and most interesting qualities of nature.
And thus the Poet, prompted by this feeling of
pleasure which accompanies him through the
whole course of his studies, converses with gene-
ral nature with affections akin to those, which,
through labour and length of time, the Man of
Science has raised up in himself, by conversing
with those particular parts of nature which are the
objects of his studies. The knowledge both of the
Poet and the Man of Science is pleasure ; but the
knowledge of the one cleaves to us as a neces-
sary part of our existence, our natural and unalien-
able inheritance ; the other is a personal and
individual acquisition, slow to come to us, and
by no habitual and direct sympathy connecting
us with our fellow-beings. The Man of Science
seeks truth as a remote and unknown benefactor ;
he cherishes and loves it in his solitude : the
Poet, singing a song in which all human beings xxxvii.

join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as
our visible friend and hourly companion. Poetry
is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge ; it
is the impassioned expression which is in the coun-
tenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be
said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man,
“that he looks before and after.” He is the
rock of defence of human nature; an upholder
and preserver, carrying every where with him
relationship and love. In spite of difference of
soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws
and customs, in spite of things silently gone out
of mind and things violently destroyed, the Poet
binds together by passion and knowledge the vast
empire of human society, as it is spread over the
whole earth, and over all time. The objects of
the Poet’s thoughts are every where ; though the
eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favorite
guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find
an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his xxxviii.

wings. Poetry is the first and last of all know-
ledge—it is as immortal as the heart of man. If
the labours of men of Science should ever create
any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our
condition, and in the impressions which we ha-
bitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more
than at present, but he will be ready to follow the
steps of the man of Science, not only in those
general indirect effects, but he will be at his side,
carrying sensation into the midst of the objects
of the Science itself. The remotest discoveries
of the Chemist, the Botanist, or Mineralogist,
will be as proper objects of the Poet’s art as any
upon which it can be employed, if the time
should ever come when these things shall be fami-
liar to us, and the relations under which they are
contemplated by the followers of these respective
Sciences shall be manifestly and palpably material
to us as enjoying and suffering beings. If the
time should ever come when what is now called xxxix.

Science, thus familiarized to men, shall be ready
to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood,
the Poet will lend his divine spirit to aid the
transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus
produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the
household of man.—It is not, then, to be supposed
that any one, who holds that sublime notion of
Poetry which I have attempted to convey, will
break in upon the sanctity and truth of his pic-
tures by transitory and accidental ornaments, and
endeavour to excite admiration of himself by arts,
the necessity of which must manifestly depend
upon the assumed meanness of his subject.

What I have thus far said applies to Poetry in
general ; but especially to those parts of composi-
tion where the Poet speaks through the mouths of
his characters; and upon this point it appears to
have such weight that I will conclude, there are
few persons, of good sense, who would not xl.

allow that the dramatic parts of composition are
defective, in proportion as they deviate from the
real language of nature, and are coloured by a
diction of the Poet’s own, either peculiar to him
as an individual Poet, or belonging simply to
Poets in general, to a body of men who, from
the circumstance of their compositions being in
metre, it is expected will employ a particular
language.

It is not, then, in the dramatic parts of compo-
sition that we look for this distinction of lan-
guage; but still it may be proper and necessary
where the Poet speaks to us in his own person
and character. To this I answer by referring my
Reader to the description which I have before
given of a Poet. Among the qualities which I
have enumerated as principally conducing to form
a Poet, is implied nothing differing in kind from
other men, but only in degree. The sum of xli.

what I have there said is, that the Poet is chiefly
distinguished from other men by a greater prompt-
ness to think and feel without immediate external
excitement, and a greater power in expressing such
thoughts and feelings as are produced in him in
that manner. But these passions and thoughts
and feelings are the general passions and thoughts
and feelings of men. And with what are they
connected? Undoubtedly with our moral senti-
ments and animal sensations, and with the causes
which excite these; with the operations of the
elements and the appearances of the visible uni-
verse; with storm and sun-shine, with the revo-
lutions of the seasons, with cold and heat, with
loss of friends and kindred, with injuries and re-
sentments, gratitude and hope, with fear and
sorrow. These, and the like, are the sensations
and objects which the Poet describes, as they are
the sensations of other men, and the objects which
interest them. The Poet thinks and feels in the xlii.

spirit of the passions of men. How, then, can
his language differ in any material degree from that
of all other men who feel vividly and see clearly?
It might be proved that it is impossible. But sup-
posing that this were not the case, the Poet might
then be allowed to use a peculiar language, when
expressing his feelings for his own gratification, or
that of men like himself. But Poets do not write
for Poets alone, but for men. Unless therefore
we are advocates for that admiration which depends
upon ignorance, and that pleasure which arises
from hearing what we do not understand, the Poet
must descend from this supposed height, and, in
order to excite rational sympathy, he must express
himself as other men express themselves. To this
it may be added, that while he is only selecting
from the real language of men, or, which amounts
to the same thing, composing accurately in the
spirit of such selection, he is treading upon safe
ground, and we know what we are to expect from xliii.

him. Our feelings are the same with respect to
metre ; for, as it may be proper to remind the
Reader, the distinction of metre is regular and
uniform, 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 respect-
ing 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 concurring
testimony of ages has shewn to heighten and im-
prove 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 addition to such xliv.

answer as is included in what I have already said,
I reply in the first place, because, however I may
have restricted myself, there is still left open to me
what confessedly constitutes the most valuable ob-
ject of all writing whether in prose or verse, the
great and universal passions of men, the most gene-
ral and interesting of their occupations, and the en-
tire world of nature, from which I am at liberty to
supply myself with endless combinations of forms
and imagery. Now, supposing 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 lan-
guage ? To this, by such as are unconvinced by
what I have already said, it may 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 xlv.

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 still contend for the neces-
sity of accompanying metre with certain appropri-
ate 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, as far as relates to these Poems,
have been almost sufficient to observe, that poems
are extant, written upon more humble subjects,
and in a more naked and simple style than I have
aimed at, which poems have continued to give
pleasure from generation to generation. Now, if
nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the fact here
mentioned affords a strong presumption that poems
somewhat less naked and simple are capable of xlvi.

affording pleasure at the present day ; and, what
I wished chiefly to attempt, at present, was to jus-
tify 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 co-existence 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 xlvii.

excitement may be carried beyond its proper
bounds. Now the co-presence of something regu-
lar, something to which the mind has been accus-
tomed in various moods and in a less excited state,
cannot but have great efficacy in tempering and re-
straining the passion by an intertexture of ordinary
feeling, and of feeling not strictly and necessarily
connected with the passion. This is unquestionably
true, and hence, though the opinion will at first
appear paradoxical, from the tendency of metre to
divest language in a certain degree of its reality,
and thus to throw a sort of half consciousness of
unsubstantial existence over the whole composition,
there can be little doubt but that more pathetic
situations and sentiments, that is, those which
have a greater proportion of pain connected with
them, may be endured in metrical composition,
especially in rhyme, than in prose. The metre of
the old Ballads is very artless; yet they contain
many passages which would illustrate this opinion, xlviii.

and, I hope, if the following Poems be attentively
perused, similar instances will be found in them.
This opinion may be further 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, in a much
greater degree than might at first be imagined, is
to be ascribed to small, but continual and regular
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- xlix.

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 pas-
sion 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- l.

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, li.

kindred 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 lii.

pleasure which has been previously received from
works of rhyme or metre of the same or similar
construction, an indistinct perception perpetually
renewed of language closely resembling that of real
life, and yet, in the circumstance of metre, dif-
fering from it so widely, 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 im-
passioned poetry ; while, in lighter compositions,
the ease and gracefulness with which the Poet
manages his numbers are themselves confessedly
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 liii.

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.

liv.

Having thus explained 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 lv.

and phrases, 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 lvi.

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. lvii.

“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 lviii.

contemptible. Whence arises this difference ?
Not from the metre, not from the language, not
from the order of the words; but the matter ex-
pressed 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 ?

lix.

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 compo-
sition 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, lx.

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 de-
cisions 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 lxi.

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 that which I have here
endeavoured 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
propose 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 lxii.

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 lxiii.

enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting, and more
exquisite nature. This part of my subject I
have not altogether neglected ; but 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 lxiv

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.

1

EXPOSTULATION

and

REPLY.

1

“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

2

“Where are your books?—that light bequeath’d5“To beings else forlorn and blind!6“Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath’d7“From dead men to their kind.8

2

3

“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

4

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

5

“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

6

“Nor less I deem that there are powers 21“Which of themselves our minds impress;22“That we can feed this mind of ours23“In a wise passiveness.24

3

7

“Think you, mid all this mighty sum25“Of things for ever speaking,26“That nothing of itself will come,27“But we must still be seeking?28

8

“—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

4

THE TABLES TURNED;

An EVENING SCENE, on the same Subject.

1

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

2

The sun, above the mountain’s head, 5A freshening lustre mellow6Through all the long green fields has spread,7His first sweet evening yellow.8

5

3

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

4

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

5

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

6

One impulse from a vernal wood21May teach you more of man;22Of moral evil and of good,23Than all the sages can.24

6

7

Sweet is the lore which nature brings;25Our meddling intellect26Mishapes the beauteous forms of things;27—We murder to dissect.28

8

Enough of science and of art;29Close up these barren leaves;30Come forth, and bring with you a heart31That watches and receives.32

9

GOODY BLAKE and HARRY GILL,

A TRUE STORY.

1

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

10

2

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

3

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. 20Old 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

11

4

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

5

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 Dame39Would sit, as any linnet gay. 40

12

6

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

7

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

13

8

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

9

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

14

10

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 hill78He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake,79She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.80

11

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

15

12

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’d95To God that is the judge of all.96

13

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

16

14

He went complaining all the morrow105That 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

15

’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

17

16

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

18

THE

LAST OF THE FLOCK.

1

In distant countries I have been;1And yet I have not often seen2A 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

19

2

He saw me, and he turned aside,11As if he wished himself to hide:12Then with his coat he made essay13To wipe those briny tears away.14I follow’d him, and said, “My Friend15“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

3

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 rich27As I could wish to be;28Of sheep I numbered a full score,29And every year increas’d my store.30

20

4

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 store37Is all that is alive;38And now I care not if we die,39And perish all of poverty.40

5

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 took47Whereof to buy us bread:”48“Do this; how can we give to you,”49They cried, “what to the poor is due?”50

21

6

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 reared57With all my care and pains,58To see it melt like snow away!59For me it was woeful day.60

7

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 alive65They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,66And I may say, that many a time67I wished they all were gone:68They dwindled one by one away;69For me it was a woeful day.70

22

8

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

9

Sir! ’twas a precious flock to me,81As dear as my own Children be;82For daily with my growing store83I 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 thought87I loved my children less;88And every week, and every day,89My flock, it seemed to melt away.90

23

10

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, yesterday95I 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

24

LINES

Left upon a seat in a YEW-TREE, which stands near the
Lake of ESTHWAITE, on a desolate part of the shore,
yet commanding a beautiful prospect.

1

—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

2

——————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,1125I 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 hate,18And scorn, against all enemies prepared, 19All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,20Owed him no service: wherefore he at once21With indignation turn’d himself away 22And with the food of pride sustained his soul 23In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs 24Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 25His only visitants a straggling sheep, 26The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; 27And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 28And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,29Fixing his down-cast eye, he many an hour 30A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 3126An emblem of his own unfruitful life:32And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 33On the more distant scene; how lovely ’tis34Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became 35Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 36The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,37When Nature had subdued him to herself,38Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 39Warm from the labours of benevolence, 40The world, and man himself, appeared a scene 41Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh 42With mournful joy, to think that others felt 43What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! 44On visionary views would fancy feed, 45Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 46He died, this seat his only monument. 47

3

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 48Of young imagination have kept pure, 49Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,5027Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,51Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt 52For any living thing, hath faculties 53Which he has never used; that thought with him 54Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye 55Is ever on himself, doth look on one, 56The least of Nature’s works, one who might move57The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds58Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser Thou! 59Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, 60True dignity abides with him alone 61Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 62Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 63In lowliness of heart.64

28

the

FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE.

A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse.

But that entrance, Mother!

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

MARIA.No one.

FOSTER-MOTHER. My husband’s father told it me,Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul!He was a woodman, and could fell and sawWith lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel; 29

Beneath that tree, while yet it was a treeHe found a baby wrapt in mosses, linedWith thistle beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy, but most unteachable—And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,And whistled, as he were a bird himself:And all the autumn ’twas his only playTo gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant themWith earth and water, on the stumps of trees.A Friar, who sought for simples in the wood,A grey-haired man—he loved this little boy,The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him,He soon could write with the pen : and from that time,Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.So he became a very learned youth.But Oh! poor wretch—he read, and read, and read,’Till his brain turned—and ere his twentieth year,30

He had unlawful thoughts of many things:And though he prayed, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place—But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him. And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chained in deep discourse,The earth heaved under them with such a groan,That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallenRight on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;A fever seized him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talkWhich brought this judgment: so the youth was seizedAnd cast into that cell. My husband’s fatherSobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart:And once as he was working near the cellHe heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’sWho sang a doleful song about green fields,How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,To hunt for food, and be a naked man,And wander up and down at liberty.31

Leoni doted on the youth, and nowHis love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described: And the young man escaped.

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

FOSTER-MOTHER. He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discoveryOf golden lands. Leoni’s younger brotherWent likewise, and when he returned to Spain,He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,Soon after they arrived in that new world,In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,And all alone, set sail by silent moonlightUp a great river, great as any sea,And ne’er was heard of more : but ’tis supposed,He lived and died among the savage men.

35

THE THORN.

[nT]

1

There is a Thorn—it looks so old,1In truth, you’d find it hard to say2How 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

36

2

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

3

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,27

37

3

This 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

4

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 vermillion dye.44

38

5

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 size,52As like as like can be:53But never, never any where,54An infant’s grave was half so fair.55

6

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 Heap60

39

6

That’s like an infant’s grave in size,61And 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

7

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

40

8

“Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,78“In rain, in tempest, and in snow,79“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

9

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,93

41

9

The 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

10

“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 place,109You something of her tale may trace.110

42

11

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

12

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 church126

43

12

Unthinking 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 turned her brain to tinder.132

13

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 rather,142That he had died, that cruel father!143

44

14

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

15

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,159

45

15

There’s no one that could ever tell;160And 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

16

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

46

17

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

18

’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 saw192

47

18

A 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

19

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

48

20

“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

21

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,225

49

21

And 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

22

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

50

23

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“Oh woe is me! oh misery!”253

51

WE ARE SEVEN.

1

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

2

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

3

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

52

4

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

5

“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

6

“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

7

“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

53

8

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

9

“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

10

“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

11

“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

54

12

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

13

“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

14

“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

15

“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

55

16

“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

17

“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

56

ANECDOTE for FATHERS,

Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

1

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

2

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

57

3

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

4

A day it was when I could bear 13To think, and think, and think again; 14With so much happiness to spare, 15I could not feel a pain. 16

5

My Boy was by my side, so slim 17And graceful in his rustic dress! 18And oftentimes I talked to him.19In very idleness. 20

6

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

58

7

“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

8

“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

9

In careless mood he looked at me,33While still I held him by the arm,34And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be35“Than here at Liswyn farm.”36

10

“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

59

11

“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

12

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

13

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

14

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

60

15

Oh dearest, dearest Boy! my heart57For better lore would seldom yearn,58Could I but teach the hundredth part59Of what from thee I learn.60

61

LINES

Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by
my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.

1

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

2

There is a blessing in the air,5Which seems a sense of joy to yield6To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 7And grass in the green field.8

3

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

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4

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

5

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

6

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

7

One moment now may give us more25Than fifty years of reason:26Our minds shall drink at every pore27The spirit of the season.28

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8

Some silent laws our hearts may make, 29Which they shall long obey: 30We for the year to come may take 31Our temper from to-day.32

9

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

10

Then come, my sister! come, I pray,37With speed put on your woodland dress;38—And bring no book : for this one day 39We’ll give to idleness.40

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the

FEMALE VAGRANT.

1

My Father was a good and pious man, 1An honest man by honest parents bred; 2And I believe, that, soon as I began 3To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 4And in his hearing there my prayers I said: 5And, afterwards, by my good Father taught,6I read, and loved the books in which I read;7For books in every neighbouring house I sought,8And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.9

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2

The suns of twenty summers danced along,—10Ah! little marked how fast they rolled away:11Then rose a stately Hall our woods among,12And cottage after cottage owned its sway.13No joy to see a neighbouring House, or stray14Through pastures not his own, the master took;15My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;16He loved his old hereditary nook,17And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.18

3

But, when he had refused the proffered gold,19To cruel injuries he became a prey,20Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold:21His troubles grew upon him day by day, 22And all his substance fell into decay. 23They dealt most hardly with him, and he tried24To move their hearts—but it was vain—for they25Seized all he had; and, weeping side by side,26We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.27

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4

It was in truth a lamentable hour 28When, from the last hill-top, my Sire surveyed,29Peering above the trees, the steeple tower30That on his marriage-day sweet music made.31Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,32Close by my Mother, in their native bowers;33Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,—34I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers,35I saw our own dear home, that was no longer ours.36

5

There was a Youth, whom I had loved so long,37That when I loved him not I cannot say. 38’Mid the green mountains many and many a song39We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.40When we began to tire of childish play41We seemed still more and more to prize each other;42We talked of marriage and our marriage day;43And I in truth did love him like a brother;44For never could I hope to meet with such another.45

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6

Two years were pass’d, since to a distant Town46He had repair’d to ply the artist’s trade.47What tears of bitter grief till then unknown!48What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!49To him we turned:—we had no other aid.50Like one revived, upon his neck I wept:51And her whom he had loved in joy, he said52He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;53And in a quiet home once more my Father slept.54

7

We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest55With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.56Three lovely Infants lay upon my breast; 57And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,58And knew not why. My happy Father died59When sad distress reduced the Children’s meal:60Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide61The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,62And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal. 63

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8

’Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;64We had no hope, and no relief could gain.65But soon, day after day, the noisy drum66Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.67My husband’s arms now only served to strain68Me and his children hungering in his view: 69In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:70To join those miserable men he flew:71And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.72

9

There, long were we neglected, and we bore73Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weigh’d;74Green fields before us and our native shore,75We breath’d a pestilential air that made76Ravage for which no knell was heard. We pray’d77For our departure; wish’d and wish’d—nor knew78’Mid that long sickness, and those hopes delay’d,79That happier days we never more must view:80The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew.81

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10

But the calm summer season now was past.82On as we drove, the equinoctial Deep 83Ran mountains-high before the howling blast;84And many perish’d in the whirlwind’s sweep.85We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep,86Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, 87Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 88That we the mercy of the waves should rue.89We reach’d the Western World, a poor, devoted crew.90

11

The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,91Disease and famine, agony and fear, 92In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 93It would thy brain unsettle, even to hear. 94All perished—all, in one remorseless year, 95Husband and Children! one by one, by sword96And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear97Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 98A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.99

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12

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 100By the first beams of dawning light impress’d,101In the calm sun-shine slept the glittering main.102The very ocean has its hour of rest. 103I too was calm, though heavily distress’d!104Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were!105My heart was healed within me, I was bless’d,106And looked, and looked along the silent air,107Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.108

13

Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! 109And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke:110The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps!111The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!112The shriek that from the distant battle broke!113The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host114Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunder-stroke115To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d,116Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!117

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14

At midnight once the storming Army came,118Yet do I see the miserable sight,119The Bayonet, the Soldier, and the Flame120That followed us and faced us in our flight:121When Rape and Murder by the ghastly light122Seized their joint prey, the Mother and the Child!123But I must leave these thoughts.—From night to night,124From day to day, the air breathed soft and mild;125And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.126

15

Some mighty gulph of separation past,127I seemed transported to another world:—128A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast129The impatient mariner the sail unfurl’d,130And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled131The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,132And from all hope I was forever hurled. 133For me—farthest from earthly port to roam134Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.135

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16

And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong)136That I at last a resting-place had found;137Here will I dwell, said I, my whole life-long,138Roaming the illimitable waters round:139Here will I live :— of every friend disown’d,140Here will I roam about the ocean-flood.—141To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:142And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,143And near a thousand tables pin’d , and wanted food.144

17

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,145Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock;146Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 147Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 148I lay, where with his drowsy Mates, the Cock149From the cross timber of an out-house hung;150Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! 151At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,152Nor to the beggar’s language could I frame my tongue.153

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18

So pass’d another day, and so the third; 154Then did I try in vain the crowd’s resort.155—In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr’d,156Near the sea-side I reached a ruined Fort: 157There, pains which nature could no more support,158With blindness link’d, did on my vitals fall,159And I had many interruptions short 160Of hideous sense; I sank, nor step could crawl,161And thence was carried to a neighbouring Hospital.162

19

Recovery came with food : but still, my brain163Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 164I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain165Of many things which never troubled me; 166Of feet still bustling round with busy glee;167Of looks where common kindness had no part;168Of service done with careless cruelty, 169Fretting the fever round the languid heart;170And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.171

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20

These things just served to stir the torpid sense,172Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. 173My memory and my strength returned ; and thence174Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, 175At houses, men, and common light, amazed.176The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, 177Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;178The Travellers saw me weep, my fate enquired,179And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.180

21

My heart is touched to think that men like these,181Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief:182How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!183And their long holiday that feared not grief!184For all belonged to all, and each was chief.185No plough their sinews strained; on grating road186No wain they drove; and yet the yellow sheaf187In every vale for their delight was stow’d;188In every field, with milk their dairy overflow’d.189

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22

They with their pannier’d Asses semblance made190Of Potters wandering on from door to door:191But life of happier sort to me pourtray’d,192And other joys my fancy to allure; 193The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor194In barn uplighted, and Companions boon195Well met from far with revelry secure, 196Among the forest glades, when jocund June197Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.198

23

But ill they suited me; those journies dark199O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!200To charm the surly House-dog’s faithful bark,201Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch; 202The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,203The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,204And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 205Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:206Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.207

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24

What could I do, unaided and unblest? 208My Father! gone was every friend of thine:209And kindred of dead husband are at best 210Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,211With little kindness would to me incline. 212Ill was I then for toil or service fit: 213With tears whose course no effort could confine,214By the road-side forgetful would I sit 215Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.216

25

I led a wandering life among the fields; 217Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused, 218I liv’d upon what casual bounty yields, 219Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 220The ground I for my bed have often used: 221But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth222Is, that I have my inner self abused, 223Foregone the home delight of constant truth,224And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.225

80

26

Three years thus wandering, often have I view’d,226In tears, the sun towards that country tend227Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: 228And now across this moor my steps I bend—229Oh! tell me whither——for no earthly friend230Have I.”——She ceased, and weeping turned away,231As if because her tale was at an end 232She wept ;—because she had no more to say233Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.234

81

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

1

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

2

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

82

3

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

4

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

5

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

6

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

83

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

With an incident in which he was concerned.

1

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

84

2

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

3

No man like him the horn could sound, 17And no man was so full of glee; 18To say the least, four counties round 19Had heard of Simon Lee;20His Master’s dead, and no one now 21Dwells in the hall of Ivor; 22Men, Dogs, and Horses, all are dead; 23He is the sole survivor. 24

85

4

And he is lean and he is sick, 25His dwindled body’s half awry;26His ancles they are swoln and thick; 27His legs are thin and dry. 28When he was young he little knew 29Of husbandry or tillage;30And now he’s forced to work, though weak,31—The weakest in the village. 32

5

He all the country could outrun, 33Could leave both man and horse behind; 34And often, ere the race was done, 35He reeled and was stone-blind. 36And still there’s something in the world 37At which his heart rejoices; 38For when the chiming hounds are out, 39He dearly loves their voices! 40

86

6

His hunting feats have him bereft 41Of his right eye, as you may see: 42And then, what limbs those feats have left43To poor old Simon Lee! 44He has no son, he has no child, 45His Wife, an aged woman, 46Lives with him, near the waterfall, 47Upon the village Common. 48

7

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 skill 53From labour could not wean them, 54Alas! ’tis very little, all 55Which they can do between them. 56

87

8

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 57Not twenty paces from the door, 58A scrap of land they have, but they 59Are 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

9

Few months of life has he in store, 65As he to you will tell, 66For still, the more he works, the more 67His poor old ancles swell. 68My gentle Reader, I perceive 69How patiently you’ve waited,70And I’m afraid that you expect 71Some tale will be related. 72

88

9

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

10

One summer-day I chanced to see 81This 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

89

9

“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 blow 93The tangled root I sever’d, 94At which the poor Old Man so long 95And vainly had endeavoured. 96

12

The tears into his eyes were brought, 97And thanks and praises seemed to run 98So fast out of his heart, I thought 99They never would have done. 100—I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 101With coldness still returning. 102Alas! the gratitude of men 103Has oftner left me mourning.104

90

The NIGHTINGALE.

Written in April, 1798.

1

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 1Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 2Of 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 silently 6O’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

91

1

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 himself,19And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20Of his own sorrows) he and such as he 21First named these notes a melancholy strain: 22And many a poet echoes the conceit;23Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme24

* “Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage in Milton
possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description:
it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has
therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark,
to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity
to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more
painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his
Bible.92

1

When he had better far have stretched his limbs 25Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell 26By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 27Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 28Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 29And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30Should share in nature’s immortality,31A venerable thing! and so his song 32Should make all nature lovelier, and itself 33Be lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;34And youths and maidens most poetical 35Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring 36In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 37Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 38O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains. 39My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learnt40A different lore : we may not thus profane 41Nature’s sweet voices always full of love 42And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale 43

93

1

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 44With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45As he were fearful, that an April night 46Would be too short for him to utter forth 47His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul48Of all its music! And I know a grove 49Of large extent, hard by a castle huge 50Which the great lord inhabits not: and so 51This 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 jug 60And one low piping sound more sweet than all—61Stirring the air with such an harmony, 62

94

1

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

2

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 Moon 72Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky73With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds 74Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 75As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept 76An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d77Many a Nightingale perch giddily 78On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, 79

95

2

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

3

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, 82And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! 83We have been loitering long and pleasantly84And 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 wise 91To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well92The evening star: and once when he awoke 93In most distressful mood (some inward pain 94Had 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

96

3

Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 98While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears 99Did 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 up 102Familiar with these songs, that with the night 103He may associate Joy! Once more farewell, 104Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.105

99

The IDIOT BOY.

1

’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

2

—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

100

3

Beneath the Moon that shines so bright, 12Till she is tired, let Betty Foy13With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; 14But wherefore set upon a saddle 15Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy? 16

4

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 do 20With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? 21

5

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

101

6

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

7

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

8

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

102

9

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

10

And he is all in travelling trim,47And by the moonlight, Betty Foy48Has up upon the saddle set, 49The like was never heard of yet, 50Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. 51

11

And he must post without delay52Across 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

103

12

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

13

And Betty o’er and o’er has told62The 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

14

And Betty’s most especial charge,67Was, “Johnny! Johnny! mind that you68“Come home again, nor stop at all, 69“Come home again, whate’er befal,70“My Johnny do, I pray you do.”71

104

15

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

16

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

17

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

105

18

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 head 90Is not more still and mute than he. 91

19

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

20

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

106

21

The silence of her Idiot Boy,102What hope 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

22

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

23

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

107

24

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

25

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 tell125What he has got upon his back.126

26

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

108

27

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

28

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 fate140Her life and soul were buried.141

29

But Betty, poor good woman! she,142You plainly in her face may read it,143Could lend out of that moment’s store144Five years of happiness or more,145To any that might need it.146

109

30

But yet I guess that now and then147With 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

31

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

32

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

110

33

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

34

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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She prefaced half a hint of this192With, “God forbid it should be true!”193At the first word that Susan said194Cried Betty, rising from the bed,195“Susan, I’d gladly stay with you.196

40

“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

41

“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

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“Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!207“There’s nothing that can ease my pain.”208Then off she hies, but with a prayer209That God poor Susan’s life would spare,210Till she comes back again.211

43

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

44

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

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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

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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

47

“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

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“Or him that wicked Pony’s carried237“To the dark cave, the goblin’s hall;238“Or in the castle he’s pursuing,239“Among the ghosts, his own undoing;240“Or playing with the waterfall.”241

49

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

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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

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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

52

And now she’s at the Doctor’s door,257She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;258The doctor at the casement shews259His glimmering eyes that peep and dose;260And one hand rubs his old night-cap.261

53

“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

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“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

55

“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

56

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

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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

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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

59

She listens, but she cannot hear292The 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

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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

61

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

62

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

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A thought is 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

64

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

65

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

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Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! 327He with his Pony now doth roam328The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 329To lay his hands upon a star, 330And in his pocket bring it home.331

67

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

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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

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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

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I to the Muses have been bound347These fourteen years, by strong indentures:348Oh gentle Muses! let me tell349But half of what to him befel,350He surely met with strange adventures. 351

71

Oh gentle Muses! is this kind?352Why 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

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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

73

Unto his Horse, that’s feeding free,362He seems, I think, the rein to give;363Of Moon or Stars he takes no heed;364Of such we in romances read,365—’Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.366

74

And that’s the very Pony too.367Where is she, where is Betty Foy?368She hardly can sustain her fears;369The roaring water-fall she hears, 370And cannot find her Idiot Boy.371

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Your Pony’s worth his weight in gold,372Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!373She’s coming from among the trees,374And now all full in view she sees375Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.376

76

And Betty sees the Pony too:377Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?378It is no goblin, ’tis no ghost,379’Tis he whom you so long have lost,380He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.381

77

She looks again—her arms are up—382She screams—she cannot move for joy;383She darts as with a torrent’s force,384She almost has o’erturned the Horse,385And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.386

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And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,387Whether in cunning or in joy,388I cannot tell; but while he laughs,389Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,390To hear again her Idiot Boy.391

79

And now she’s at the Pony’s tail,392And now she’s at the Pony’s head,393On that side now, and now on this, 394And almost stifled with her bliss, 395A few sad tears does Betty shed. 396

80

She kisses o’er and o’er again,397Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy, 398She’s happy here, she’s happy there,399She is uneasy every where;400Her limbs are all alive with joy.401

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She pats the Pony, where or when 402She knows not, happy Betty Foy!403The little Pony glad may be,404But he is milder far than she,405You hardly can perceive his joy.406

82

“Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; 407“You’ve done your best, and that is all.”408She took the reins, when this was said,409And gently turned the Pony’s head410From the loud water-fall.411

83

By this the stars were almost gone,412The moon was setting on the hill,413So pale you scarcely looked at her:414The little birds began to stir, 415Though yet their tongues were still.416

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The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,417Wind slowly through the woody dale; 418And who is she, be-times abroad, 419That hobbles up the steep rough road? 420Who is it, but old Susan Gale? 421

85

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, 422And many dreadful fears beset her, 423Both for her Messenger and Nurse; 424And as her mind grew worse and worse,425Her body it grew better.426

86

She turned, she toss’d herself in bed,427On all sides doubts and terrors met her; 428Point after point did she discuss; 429And while her mind was fighting thus, 430Her body still grew better. 431

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“Alas! what is become of them? 432“These fears can never be endured, 433“I’ll to the wood.”—The word scarce said,434Did Susan rise up from her bed, 435As if by magic cured.436

88

Away she posts up hill and down,437And to the wood at length is come,438She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;439Oh me! it is a merry meeting, 440As ever was in Christendom.441

89

The Owls have hardly sung their last,442While our four Travellers homeward wend;443The Owls have hooted all night long,444And with the Owls began my song,445And with the Owls must end.446

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For, while they all were travelling home,447Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do,448“Where all this long night you have been,449“What you have heard, what you have seen,449“And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”451

91

Now Johnny all night long had heard452The Owls in tuneful concert strive; 453No doubt too he the Moon had seen; 454For in the moonlight he had been 455From eight o’clock till five.456

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And thus to Betty’s question, he,457Made answer, like a Traveller bold, 458(His very words I give to you,)459“The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,460“And the Sun did shine so cold.”461—Thus answered Johnny in his glory, 462And that was all his travel’s story.463