Page
Hart-leap Well - - - - - - 1
There was a Boy, &c - - - - - 14
The Brothers - - - - - - 16
Ellen Irwin, or the Braes of Kirtle - - - 46
Strange Fits of Passion I have known, &c. - - 50
She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways, &c. - 52
A slumber did my spirit seal, &c. - - - 53
The Waterfall and the Eglantine - - - 54
The Oak and the Broom, a Pastoral - - 58
The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - 65
Lucy Gray - - - - - - - 71
’Tis said that some have died for Love, &c. - 76
The Idle Shepherd-Boys, or Dungeon-Gill Force,
a Pastoral - - - - - - 80
Poor Susan - - - - - - - 87
Inscription for the Spot where the Hermitage stood
on St. Herbert’s Island, Derwent-Water - 89
Lines written with a Pencil upon a stone in the
wall of the House (an Out-house) on the
Island at Grasmere - - - - - 91
To a Sexton - - - - - - 93
Andrew Jones - - - - - - 96
Ruth - - - - - - - 99
Lines written with a Slate-Pencil, &c. - - 117

contents.

Page
Lines written on a Tablet in a School - - 120
The two April Mornings - - - - 123
The Fountain, a Conversation - - - 127
Nutting - - - - - - 132
Three years she grew in sun and shower - 136
The Pet-Lamb, a Pastoral - - - - 139
Written in Germany, on one of the coldest days
of the Century - - - - 144
The Childless Father - - - - 147
The Old Cumberland Beggar, a description - 149
Rural Architecture - - - - 163
A Poet’s Epitaph - - - - 165
A Fragment - - - - - - 169
Poems on the Naming of Places - 173 to 193
Lines written when sailing in a Boat at Evening 195
Remembrance of Collins, written upon the
Thames, near Richmond - - - 197
The Two Thieves, or the last stage of Avarice - 199
A whirl-blast from behind the Hill, &c. - - 203
Song for the Wandering Jew - - - - 205
Michael, a Pastoral Poem- - - - 207
Appendix - - - - - - - 237
Notes - - - - - - - - - 249

There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs1And Islands of Winander! many a time,2At evening, when the stars had just begun3To move along the edges of the hills,4Rising or setting, would he stand alone,5Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;6And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands7Press’d closely palm to palm and to his mouth8Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,9Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls10That they might answer him.—And they would shout11Across the wat’ry vale and shout again12Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,13And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud14Redoubled and redoubled; a wild scene15

Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced16That pauses of deep silence mock’d his skill,17Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung18Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise19Has carried far into his heart the voice20Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene21Would enter unawares into his mind22With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,23Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, receiv’d24Into the bosom of the steady lake.25

Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,26The vale where he was born : the Church-yard hangs27Upon a slope above the village School,28And there, along that bank, when I have pass’d29At evening, I believe, that near his grave30A full half-hour together I have stood31Mute——for he died when he was ten years old.32

“These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live1“A profitable life: some glance along,2“Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,3“And they were butterflies to wheel about4“Long as their summer lasted : some, as wise,5“Upon the forehead of a jutting crag,6“Sit perch’d with book and pencil on their knee,7“And look and scribble, scribble on and look,8“Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,9“Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.10

“But, for that moping Son of Idleness,11“Why can he tarry yonder?—In our church-yard12“Is neither epitaph nor monument,13“Tomb-stone nor name—only the turf we tread,14“And a few natural graves.” To Jane, his Wife,15Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.16It was a July evening ; and he sate17Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves18Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day,19Employ’d in winter’s work. Upon the stone20His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,21While, from the twin cards tooth’d with glittering wire,22He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,23Who turn’d her large round wheel in the open air24With back and forward steps. Towards the field25In which the Pariſh Chapel stood alone,26Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,27While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent28Many a long look of wonder, and at last,29Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge30

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

’Twas one well known to him in former days,37A Shepherd-lad : who ere his thirteenth year38Had chang’d his calling, with the mariners39A fellow-mariner, and so had fared40Through twenty seasons; but he had been rear’d41Among the mountains, and he in his heart42Was half a Shepherd on the stormy seas.43Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard44The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds45Of caves and trees :—and, when the regular wind46Between the tropics fill’d the steady sail,47And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,48Lengthening invisibly its weary line49

Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours50Of tiresome indolence, would often hang51Over the vessel’s side, and gaze and gaze,52And, while the broad green wave and sparkling foam,53Flash’d round him images and hues, that wrought54In union with the employment of his heart,55He, thus by feverish passion overcome,56Even with the organs of his bodily eye,57Below him, in the bosom of the deep,58Saw mountains, saw the forms of sheep that graz’d59On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,60And Shepherds clad in the same country grey61Which he himself had worn.*62

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

With a determin’d purpose to resume66The life which he liv’d there; both for the sake67Of many darling pleasures, and the love68Which to an only brother he has borne69In all his hardships, since that happy time70When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two71Were brother Shepherds on their native hills.72——They were the last of all their race : and now73When Leonard had approach’d his home, his heart74Fail’d in him; and, not venturing to inquire75Tidings of one whom he so dearly lov’d,76Towards the church-yard he had turn’d aside,77That, as he knew in what particular spot78His family were laid, he thence might learn79If still his Brother liv’d, or to the file80Another grave was added.—He had found81Another grave, near which a full half hour82He had remain’d; but, as he gaz’d, there grew83Such a confusion in his memory,84That he began to doubt, and he had hopes85

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

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

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

LEONARD.You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:118Your years make up one peaceful family;119And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come120And welcome gone, they are so like each other,121They cannot be remember’d. Scarce a funeral122Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;12326

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

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

LEONARD. But, surely, yonder—134

PRIEST.Aye, there indeed, your memory is a friend135That does not play you false.—On that tall pike,136(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)137There were two Springs which bubbled side by side,13827

As if they had been made that they might be139Companions for each other: ten years back,140Close to those brother fountains, the huge crag141Was rent with lightning—one is dead and gone,142The other, left behind, is flowing still.——143For accidents and changes such as these,144Why we have store of them! a water-spout145Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast146For folks that wander up and down like you147To see an acre’s breadth of that wide cliff148One roaring cataract!—a sharp May storm149Will come with loads of January snow,150And in one night send twenty score of sheep151To feed the ravens; or a Shepherd dies152By some untoward death among the rocks:153The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge—154A wood is fell’d:—and then for our own homes!155A Child is born or christen’d, a Field plough’d,156A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun,157The old House-clock is deck’d with a new face;15828

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates159To chronicle the time, we all have here160A pair of diaries, one serving, Sir,161For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side—162Your’s was a stranger’s judgment: for Historians163Commend me to these vallies.164

LEONARD. Yet your Church-yard164Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,165To say that you are heedless of the past.166An orphan could not find his mother’s grave:167Here’s neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass,167Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state168Or emblem of our hopes: the dead man’s home169Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.170

PRIEST.Why there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me.171The Stone-cutters, ’tis true, might beg their bread172If every English Church-yard were like ours:173Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth.17429

We have no need of names and epitaphs;175We talk about the dead by our fire-sides,176And then, for our immortal part ! we want177No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:178The thought of death sits easy on the man179Who has been born and dies among the mountains.180

LEONARD.Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other’s thoughts181Possess a kind of second life: no doubt182You, Sir, could help me to the history183Of half these Graves?184

PRIEST. For eight-score winters past,With what I’ve witness’d, and with what I’ve heard,185Perhaps I might; and, on a winter’s evening,186If you were seated at my chimney’s nook,187By turning o’er these hillocks one by one188We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round,189Yet all in the broad high-way of the world.190Now there’s a grave—your foot is half upon it,19130

It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man192Died broken-hearted.193

LEONARD. ’Tis a common case,We’ll take another: who is he that lies194Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves;—195It touches on that piece of native rock196Left in the church-yard wall.197

PRIEST. That’s Walter Ewbank.He had as white a head and fresh a cheek198As ever were produc’d by youth and age199Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.200For five long generations had the heart201Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflow’d the bounds202Of their inheritance, that single cottage,203—You see it yonder! and those few green fields.204They toil’d and wrought, and still, from Sire to Son,205Each struggled, and each yielded as before20631

A little—yet a little—and old Walter,207They left to him the family heart, and land208With other burthens than the crop it bore.209Year after year the old man still kept up210A chearful mind, and buffetted with bond,211Interest and mortgages; at last he sank,212And went into his grave before his time.213Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurr’d him214God only knows, but to the very last215He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:216His pace was never that of an old man:217I almost see him tripping down the path218With his two Grandsons after him—but You,219Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,220Have far to travel, and in these rough paths221Even in the longest day of midsummer—222

LEONARD.But these two Orphans!223

PRIEST. Orphans! such they were—22332

Yet not while Walter liv’d—for, though their Parents224Lay buried side by side as now they lie,225The old Man was a father to the boys,226Two fathers in one father: and if tears,227Shed when he talk’d of them where they were not,228And hauntings from the infirmity of love,229Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart,230This old Man in the day of his old age231Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,232To hear a Stranger talking about Strangers,233Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!234Aye. You may turn that way—it is a grave235Which will bear looking at.236

LEONARD. These Boys—I hope236They lov’d this good old Man—237

PRIEST. They did—and truly:But that was what we almost overlook’d,23833

They were such darlings of each other. For239Though from their cradles they had liv’d with Walter,240The only Kinsman near them in the house,241Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,242And it all went into each other’s hearts.243Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,244Was two years taller: ’twas a joy to see,245To hear, to meet them! from their house the School246Was distant three short miles—and in the time247Of storm and thaw, when every water-course248And unbridg’d stream, such as you may have notic’d249Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,250Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,251Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps252Remain’d at home, go staggering through the fords253Bearing his Brother on his back.—I’ve seen him,254On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,255Aye, more than once I’ve seen him mid-leg deep,256Their two books lying both on a dry stone257Upon the hither side: and once I said,25834

As I remember, looking round these rocks259And hills on which we all of us were born,260That God who made the great book of the world261Would bless such piety—262

LEONARD. It may be then—

PRIEST.Never did worthier lads break English bread!263The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,264With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,265Could never keep these boys away from church,266Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.267Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner268Among these rocks and every hollow place269Where foot could come, to one or both of them270Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.271Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o’er the hills:272They play’d like two young Ravens on the crags:273Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well27435

As many of their betters—and for Leonard!275The very night before he went away,276In my own house I put into his hand277A Bible, and I’d wager twenty pounds,278That, if he is alive, he has it yet.279

LEONARD.It seems, these Brothers have not liv’d to be280A comfort to each other.—281

PRIEST. That they mightLive to that end, is what both old and young282In this our valley all of us have wish’d,283And what, for my part, I have often pray’d:284But Leonard—285

LEONARD. Then James still is left among you!

PRIEST.’Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking:28636

They had an Uncle, he was at that time287A thriving man, and traffick’d on the seas:288And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour289Leonard had never handled rope our shroud.290For the Boy lov’d the life which we lead here;291And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old,292His soul was knit to this his native soil.293But, as I said, old Walter was too weak294To strive with such a torrent; when he died,295The Estate and House were sold, and all their Sheep,296A pretty flock, and which for aught I know,297Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years.298Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.299And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother’s sake,300Resolv’d to try his fortune on the seas.301’Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.302If there was one among us who had heard303That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,30437

From the great Gavel*, down by Leeza’s Banks,305And down the Enna, far as Egremont,306The day would be a very festival,307And those two bells of ours, which there you see308Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir!309This is sad talk—they’ll never sound for him310Living or dead—When last we heard of him311He was in slavery among the Moors312Upon the Barbary Coast—’Twas not a little313That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt,314Before it ended in his death, the Lad315* The great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance
to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cum-
berland mountains. It stands at the head of the several vales of
Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Borrowdale.

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

Was sadly cross’d—Poor Leonard! when we parted,316He took me by the hand and said to me,317If ever the day came when he was rich,318He would return, and on his Father’s Land319He would grow old among us.320

LEONARD. If that dayShould come, ’twould needs be a glad day for him;321He would himself, no doubt, be happy then322As any that should meet him—323

PRIEST. Happy! Sir—

LEONARD.You said his kindred all were in their graves,324And that he had one Brother— 325

PRIEST. That is but39

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth326James, though not sickly, yet was delicate,327And Leonard being always by his side328Had done so many offices about him,329That, though he was not of a timid nature,330Yet still the spirit of a Mountain Boy331In him was somewhat check’d; and, when his Brother332Was gone to sea and he was left alone,333The little colour that he had was soon334Stolen from his cheek, he droop’d, and pin’d and pin’d—335

LEONARD.But these are all the graves of full-grown men!336

PRIEST.Aye, Sir, that pass’d away: we took him to us.337He was the Child of all the dale—he liv’d338Three months with one, and six months with another;339And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:340And many, many happy days were his.34140

But, whether blithe or sad, ’tis my belief342His absent Brother still was at his heart.343And, when he liv’d beneath our roof, we found344(A practice till this time unknown to him)345That often, rising from his bed at night,346He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping347He sought his Brother Leonard—You are mov’d!348Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,349I judg’d you most unkindly.350

LEONARD. But this Youth,How did he die at last? 351

PRIEST. One sweet May morning,It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns,352He had gone forth among the new-dropp’d lambs,353With two or three Companions whom it chanc’d354Some further business summon’d to a house35541

Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tir’d perhaps,356Or for some other cause, remain’d behind.357You see yon Precipice—it almost looks358Like some vast building made of many crags;359And in the midst is one particular rock360That rises like a column from the vale,361Whence by our Shepherds it is call’d, the Pillar.362James, pointing to its summit, over which363They all had purpos’d to return together,364And told them that he there would wait for them:365They parted, and his Comrades pass’d that way366Some two hours after, but they did not find him367Upon the Pillar—at the appointed place.368Of this they took no heed : but one of them, 369Going by chance, at night, into the house370Which at that time was James’s home, there learn’d371That nobody had seen him all that day:372The morning came, and still, he was unheard of:373The neighbours were alarm’d, and to the Brook374Some went, and some towards the Lake; ere noon37542

They found him at the foot of that same Rock—376Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after377I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies.378

LEONARD.And that then is his grave!—Before his death379You say that he saw many happy years?380

PRIEST.Aye, that he did— 381

LEONARD. And all went well with him—

PRIEST.If he had one, the Lad had twenty homes.382

LEONARD.And you believe then, that his mind was easy—383

PRIEST.Yes, long before he died, he found that time384Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless385His thoughts were turn’d on Leonard’s luckless fortune,386He talk’d about him with a chearful love.387

LEONARD.He could not come to an unhallow’d end!388

PRIEST.Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mention’d389A habit which disquietude and grief390Had brought upon him; and we all conjectur’d391That, as the day was warm, he had lain down392Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades393He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep394He to the margin of the precipice395Had walk’d, and from the summit had fallen head-long,396And so no doubt he perish’d: at the time,397We guess, that in his hands he must have had39844

His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff,399It had been caught; and there for many years400It hung—and moulder’d there.401

The Priest here ended— The Stranger would have thank’d him, but he felt402Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,403And Leonard, when they reach’d the church-yard gate,404As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn’d round,405And, looking at the grave, he said, “My Brother.”406The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,407Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated408That Leonard would partake his homely fare:409The other thank’d him with a fervent voice,410But added, that, the evening being calm,411He would pursue his journey. So they parted.412

It was not long ere Leonard reach’d a grove413That overhung the road : he there stopp’d short,414And, sitting down beneath the trees, review’d415All that the Priest had said: his early years416

Were with him in his heart: his cherish’d hopes,417And thoughts which had been his an hour before,418All press’d on him with such a weight, that now,419This vale, where he had been so happy, seem’d420A place in which he could not bear to live:421So he relinquish’d all his purposes.422He travell’d on to Egremont : and thence,423That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest424Reminding him of what had pass’d between them;425And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,426That it was from the weakness of his heart,427He had not dared to tell him who he was.428

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now429A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner.430

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate1Upon the Braes of Kirtle,2Was lovely as a Grecian Maid3Adorn’d with wreaths of myrtle.4Young Adam Bruce beside her lay;5And there did they beguile the day6With love and gentle speeches,7Beneath the budding beeches.8

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

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

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

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

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

Now ye, who willingly have heard49The tale I have been telling,50May in Kirkonnel church-yard view51The grave of lovely Ellen:52By Ellen’s side the Bruce is laid;53And, for the stone upon his head,54May no rude hand deface it,55And its forlorn Hic jacet.56

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

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

Upon the Moon I fix’d my eye,9All over the wide lea:10My Horse trudg’d on—and we drew nigh11Those paths so dear to me.12

And now we reach’d the orchard plot;13And, as we climb’d the hill,14Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot15The Moon descended still.16

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

My Horse mov’d on; hoof after hoof21He rais’d, and never stopp’d:22When down behind the cottage roof23At once the Planet dropp’d.24

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

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

A Violet by a mossy stone5 Half-hidden from the Eye!6—Fair as a star, when only one7 Is shining in the sky.8

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

A slumber did my spirit seal;1 I had no human fears:2She seem’d a thing that could not feel3 The touch of earthly years.4

No motion has she now, no force;5 She neither hears nor sees,6Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course7 With rocks and stones and trees!8

“Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”1Exclaim’d a thundering Voice,2“Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self3“Between me and my choice!”4A falling Water swoln with snows5Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,6That, all bespatter’d with his foam,7And dancing high, and dancing low,7Was living, as a child might know,8In an unhappy home.10

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

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

“When Spring came on with bud and bell,31“Among these rocks did I32“Before you hang my wreath to tell33“That gentle days were nigh!34“And in the sultry summer hours35“I shelter’d you with leaves and flowers;36“And in my leaves, now shed and gone,37“The Linnet lodg’d, and for us two38“Chaunted his pretty songs, when You39“Had little voice or none.40

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Thing had better been asleep,41“Whatever thing it were,42“Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep,43“That first did plant you there.44“For you and your green twigs decoy45“The little witless Shepherd-boy56“To come and slumber in your bower;57“And, trust me, on some sultry noon,58“Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!59“Will perish in one hour.60

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

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

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

“The Butterfly, all green and gold,81“To me hath often flown,82“Here in my Blossoms to behold83“Wings lovely as his own.84“When grass is chill with rain or dew,85“Beneath my shade the mother Ewe86“Lies with her infant Lamb; I see87“The love they to each other make,79“And the sweet joy, which they partake,89“It is a joy to me.”90

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

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

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

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

Alas! you might have dragged me on 21Another day, a single one! 22Too soon despair o’er me prevail’d; 23Too soon my heartless spirit fail’d; 24When you were gone my limbs were stronger;25And Oh how grievously I rue, 26That, afterwards, a little longer,27My Friends, I did not follow you!28For strong and without pain I lay,29My Friends, when you were gone away. 30

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

My little joy! my little pride!41In two days more I must have died. 42Then do not weep and grieve for me; 43I feel I must have died with thee. 44Oh wind, that o’er my head art flying45The way my Friends their course did bend,46I should not feel the pain of dying, 47Could I with thee a message send! 48Too soon, my Friends, you went away; 49For I had many things to say. 50

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

My journey will be shortly run,61I shall not see another sun;62I cannot lift my limbs to know63If they have any life or no.64My poor forsaken child! if I65For once could have thee close to me,66With happy heart I then should die,67And my last thoughts would happy be.68I feel my body die away,69I shall not see another day.70

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

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;5She dwelt on a wide Moor,6—The sweetest thing that ever grew7Beside a human door!8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They follow’d from the snowy bank,53The footmarks, one by one,54Into the middle of the plank;55And further there was none.56

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

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

’Tis said, that some have died for love:1And here and there a church-yard grave is found2In the cold North’s unhallow’d ground,3Because the wretched Man himself had slain,4His love was such a grievous pain.5And there is one whom I five years have known;6He dwells alone7Upon Helvellyn’s side:8He loved——the pretty Barbara died,9And thus he makes his moan:10Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid11When thus his moan he made.12

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

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

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

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

The Man who makes this feverish complaint45Is one of giant stature, who could dance46Equipp’d from head to foot in iron mail.47Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine48To store up kindred hours for me, thy face49Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk50Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know51Such happiness as I have known to-day.52

The valley rings with mirth and joy;1Among the hills the Echoes play2A never, never ending song3To welcome in the May.4The Magpie chatters with delight;5* Gill in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a
short, and for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with
a stream running through it. Force is the word univer-
sally employed in these dialects for Waterfall. The mountain Raven’s youngling Brood6Have left the Mother and the Nest;7And they go rambling east and west8In search of their own food;9Or thro’ the glittering Vapors dart10In very wantonness of heart.11

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,12Two Boys are sitting in the sun;13It seems they have no work to do,14Or that their work is done.15On pipes of sycamore they play16The fragments of a Christmas Hymn;17Or with that plant, which in our dale18We call Stag-horn, or Fox’s Tail,19Their rusty Hats they trim:20And thus, as happy as the Day,21Those Shepherds wear the time away.22

Along the river’s stony marge23The Sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;24The Thrush is busy in the wood,25And carols loud and strong.26A thousand Lambs are on the rocks,27All newly born! both earth and sky28Keep jubilee; and more than all,29Those Boys with their green Coronal;30They never hear the cry,31That plaintive cry! which up the hill32Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.33

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,34“Down to the stump of yon old yew35“We’ll for this Whistle run a race.36—Away the Shepherds flew.37They leapt—they ran—and when they came3883Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,39Seeing that he should lose the prize,40“Stop!” to his comrade Walter cries—41James stopp’d with no good will:42Said Walter then, “Your task is here,43“’Twill keep you working half a year.44

“Now cross where I shall cross—come on45“And follow me where I shall lead”—46James proudly took him at his word,47But did not like the deed.48It was a spot, which you may see49If ever you to Langdale go:50Into a chasm a mighty Block51Hath fallen, and made a Bridge of rock:52The gulph is deep below;53And in a bason black and small54Receives a lofty Waterfall.55

With staff in hand across the cleft56The Challenger began his march;57And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain’d58The middle of the arch.59When list! he hears a piteous moan—60Again!—his heart within him dies—61His pulse is stopp’d, his breath is lost,62He totters, pale as any ghost,63And, looking down, he spies64A Lamb, that in the pool is pent65Within that black and frightful Rent.66

The Lamb had slipp’d into the stream,67And safe without a bruise or wound68The Cataract had borne him down69Into the gulph profound.70His Dam had seen him when he fell,7185She saw him down the torrent borne;72And, while with all a mother’s love73She from the lofty rocks above74Sent forth a cry forlorn,75The Lamb, still swimming round and round,76Made answer to that plaintive sound.77

When he had learnt, what thing it was,78That sent this rueful cry ; I ween,79The Boy recover’d heart, and told80The sight which he had seen.81Both gladly now deferr’d their task;82Nor was there wanting other aid—83A Poet, one who loves the brooks,84Far better than the sages’ books,85By chance had thither stray’d;86And there the helpless Lamb he found87By those huge rocks encompass’d round.88

He drew it gently from the pool,89And brought it forth into the light:90The Shepherds met him with his Charge,91An unexpected sight!92Into their arms the Lamb they took,93Said they, “He’s neither maim’d nor scarr’d”—94Then up the steep ascent they hied95And placed him at his Mother’s side;96And gently did the Bard97Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,98And bade them better mind their trade.99

At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,1There’s a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:2Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot, and has heard3In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.4

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

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

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

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend1Hast been so happy, that thou know’st what thoughts2Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love3Make the heart sick, then wilt thou reverence4This quiet spot.——St. Herbert hither came,5And here, for many seasons, from the world6Remov’d, and the affections of the world,7He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left8A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov’d9As his own soul. And, when within his cave10Alone he knelt before the crucifix11While o’er the Lake the cataract of Lodore1290Peal’d to his orisons, and when he pac’d13Along the beach of this small isle and thought14Of his Companion, he would pray that both15Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain16So pray’d he:—as our Chronicles report,17Though here the Hermit number’d his last days,18Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved Friend,19Those holy Men both died in the same hour.20

Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen1Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain’d2Proportions more harmonious, and approach’d3To somewhat of a closer fellowship4With the ideal grace. Yet as it is5Do take it in good part; for he, the poor6Vitruvius of our village, had no help7From the great City; never on the leaves8Of red Morocco folio saw display’d9The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts10Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,11Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.12It is a homely Pile, yet to these walls1392The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here14The new-dropp’d lamb finds shelter from the wind.15And hither does one Poet sometimes row16His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled17With plenteous store of heath and wither’d fern,18(A lading which he with his sickle cuts19Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof21He makes his summer couch, and here at noon22Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep23Panting beneath the burthen of their wool24Lie round him, even as if they were a part25Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed26He through that door-place looks toward the lake27And to the stirring breezes, does he want28Creations lovely as the work of sleep,29Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.30

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.1Wherefore, Sexton, piling still2In thy Bone-house bone on bone?3’Tis already like a hill4In a field of battle made,5Where three thousand skulls are laid.6——These died in peace each with the other,7Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.8

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

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

Look but at the gardener’s pride—17How he glories, when he sees18Roses, Lilies, side by side,19Violets in families!20By the heart of Man, his tears,21By his hopes and by his fears,22Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden23Of a far superior garden.24

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

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

“I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed1“His children up to waste and pillage.2“I wish the press-gang or the drum3“With its tantara sound, would come4“And sweep him from the village!”5

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

For this poor crawling helpless wretch11Some Horseman who was passing by12A penny on the ground had thrown;13But the poor Cripple was alone14And could not stoop—no help was nigh.15

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

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

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

And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys31Will all be train’d to waste and pillage;32And wish’d the press-gang, or the drum33With its tantara sound, would come34And sweep him from the village!35

When Ruth was left half desolate1Her Father took another Mate;2And Ruth, not seven years old,3A slighted Child, at her own will4Went wandering over dale and hill,5In thoughtless freedom bold.6

And she had made a Pipe of straw,7And from that oaten Pipe could draw8All sounds of winds and floods;9Had built a Bower upon the green,10As if she from her birth had been11An Infant of the woods.12

Beneath her Father’s roof, alone13She seem’d to live; her thoughts her own;14Herself her own delight:15Pleas’d with herself, nor sad nor gay,16She pass’d her time; and in this way17Grew up to Woman’s height.18

There came a Youth from Georgia’s shore—19A military Casque he wore20With splendid feathers drest;21He brought them from the Cherokees;22The feathers nodded in the breeze23And made a gallant crest.24

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:25Ah no! he spake the English tongue,26And bare a Soldier’s name;27And, when America was free28From battle and from jeopardy,29He cross the ocean came.30

With hues of genius on his cheek31In finest tones the Youth could speak.32—While he was yet a Boy33The moon, the glory of the sun,34And streams that murmur as they run35Had been his dearest joy.36

He was a lovely Youth! I guess37The panther in the wilderness38Was not so fair as he;39And when he chose to sport and play,40No dolphin ever was so gay41Upon the tropic sea.42

Among the Indians he had fought;43And with him many tales he brought44Of pleasure and of fear;45Such tales as told to any Maid46By such a Youth in the green shade47Were perilous to hear.48

He told of Girls, a happy rout!49Who quit their fold with dance and shout50Their pleasant Indian Town51To gather strawberries all day long,52Returning with a choral song53When day-light is gone down.54

He spake of plants divine and strange55That every day their blossoms change,56Ten thousand lovely hues!57With budding, fading, faded flowers58They stand the wonder of the bowers59 From morn to evening dews.60

Of march and ambush, siege and fight,61Then did he tell; and with delight62The heart of Ruth would ache;63Wild histories they were, and dear:64But ’twas a thing of heaven to hear65When of himself he spake!66

Sometimes most earnestly he said;67“O Ruth! I have been worse than dead:68False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain69Encompass’d me on every side70When I, in thoughtlessness and pride,71Had cross’d the Atlantic Main.72

Whatever in those Climes I found73Irregular in sight or sound74Did to my mind impart75A kindred impulse, seem’d allied76To my own powers, and justified77The workings of my heart.78

Nor less to feel unhallow’d thought79The beauteous forms of nature wrought,80Fair trees and lovely flowers;81The breezes their own languor lent;82The stars had feelings which they sent83Into those magic bowers.84

Yet, in my worst pursuits, I ween,85That often there did intervene86Pure hopes of high intent;87My passions, amid forms so fair88And stately, wanted not their share89Of noble sentiment.90

So was it then, and so is now:91For, Ruth! with thee I know not how92I feel my spirit burn93Even as the east when day comes forth;94And to the west, and south, and north,95The morning doth return.96

It is a purer better mind:97O Maiden innocent and kind98What sights I might have seen!99Even now upon my eyes they break!100—And he again began to speak101Of Lands where he had been.102

He told of the Magnolia,/ spread103High as a cloud, high over head!104The Cypress and her spire,105—Of *flowers that with one scarlet gleam106Cover a hundred leagues and seem105To set the hills on fire.108

The Youth of green Savannahs spake,109And many an endless, endless lake,110With all its fairy crowds111Of islands, that together lie112As quietly as spots of sky113Among the evening clouds.114

And then he said “ How sweet it were115A fisher or a hunter there,116A gardener in the shade,117Still wandering with an easy mind118To build a household fire, and find119A home in every glade.120

What days and what sweet years! Ah me!121Our life were life indeed, with thee122So pass’d in quiet bliss,123And all the while” said he “ to know124That we were in a world of woe,125On such an earth as this!126

And then he sometimes interwove127Dear thoughts about a Father’s love,128“For there,” said he, “are spun129Around the heart such tender ties,130That our own children to our eyes131Are dearer than the sun.132

Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me133My helpmate in the woods to be,134Our shed at night to rear;135Or run, my own adopted Bride,136A sylvan Huntress at my side137And drive the flying deer.138

Beloved Ruth!” No more he said.139Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed140A solitary tear,141She thought again—and did agree142With him to sail across the sea,143And drive the flying deer.144

“And now, as fitting is and right,145We in the Church our faith will plight,146A Husband and a Wife.”147Even so they did; and I may say148That to sweet Ruth that happy day149Was more than human life.150

Through dream and vision did she sink,151Delighted all the while to think152That, on those lonesome floods,153And green Savannahs, she should share154His board with lawful joy, and bear155His name in the wild woods.156

But, as you have before been told,157This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,158And, with his dancing crest,159So beautiful, through savage lands160Had roam’d about with vagrant bands161Of Indians in the West.162

The wind, the tempest roaring high,163The tumult of a tropic sky164Might well be dangerous food165For him, a Youth to whom was given166So much of earth so much of Heaven,167And such impetuous blood.168

Ill did he live, much evil saw169With men to whom no better law170Nor better life was known;171Deliberately and undeceiv’d172Those wild men’s vices he receiv’d,173And gave them back his own.174

His genius and his moral frame175Were thus impair’d, and he became176The slave of low desires:177A Man who without self-controul178Would seek what the degraded soul179Unworthily admires.180

And yet he with no feign’d delight181Had woo’d the maiden, day and night182Had lov’d her, night and morn:183What could he less than love a Maid184Whose heart with so much nature play’d?185So kind and so forlorn!186

But now the pleasant dream was gone;187No hope, no wish remain’d, not one,188They stirr’d him now no more;189New objects did new pleasure give,190And once again he wish’d to live191As lawless as before.192

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,193They for the voyage were prepared194And went to the sea-shore;195But, when they thither came, the Youth196Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth197Could never find him more.198

“God help thee Ruth!—Such pains she had199That she in half a year was mad200And in a prison hous’d;201And there, exulting in her wrongs,202Among the music of her songs.203She fearfully carous’d.204

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,205Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,206Nor pastimes of the May,207—They all were with her in her cell;208And a wild brook with cheerful knell209Did o’er the pebbles play.210

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain211There came a respite to her pain,212She from her prison fled;213But of the Vagrant none took thought;214And where it liked her best she sought215Her shelter and her bread.216

Among the fields she breath’d again:217The master-current of her brain218Ran permanent and free;219And, coming to the Banks of Tone,**The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great dis-
tance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are
220114There did she rest; and dwell alone221Under the greenwood tree.222

The engines of her pain, the tools223That shap’d her sorrow, rocks and pools,224And airs that gently stir225The vernal leaves, she loved them still,226Nor ever tax’d them with the ill227Which had been done to her.228

A Barn her winter bed supplies;229But till the warmth of summer skies230And summer days is gone,231(And in this tale we all agree)232She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,233And other home hath none.234

The neighbours grieve for her, and say235That she will, long before her day,236alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful,
and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.115Be broken down and old.237Sore aches she needs must have! but less238Of mind, than body’s wretchedness,239From damp, and rain, and cold.240

If she is press’d by want of food241She from her dwelling in the wood242Repairs to a road-side;243And there she begs at one steep place,244Where up and down with easy pace245The horsemen-travellers ride.246

That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,247Or thrown away; but with a flute248Her loneliness she cheers:249This flute made of a hemlock stalk250At evening in his homeward walk251The Quantock Woodman hears.252

I, too, have pass’d her on the hills253Setting her little water-mills254By spouts and fountains wild—255Such small machinery as she turn’d256Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d,257A young and happy Child!258

Farewel! and when thy days are told259Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mold260Thy corpse shall buried be;261For thee a funeral bell shall ring,262And all the congregation sing263A Christian psalm for thee.264

Stranger! this hillock of misshapen stones1Is not a ruin of the ancient time,2Nor, as perchance, thou rashly deem’st, the Cairn3Of some old British Chief: ’tis nothing more4Than the rude embryo of a little Dome5Or Pleasure-house, once destin’d to be built6Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.7But, as it chanc’d, Sir William having learn’d8That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,9And make himself a freeman of this spot10118At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith11Desisted, and the quarry and the mound12Are monuments of his unfinish’d task.——13The block on which these lines are trac’d, perhaps,14Was once selected as the corner-stone15Of the intended Pile, which would have been16Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill,17So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,18And other little Builders who dwell here,19Had wonder’d at the work. But blame him not,20For old Sir William was a gentle Knight21Bred in this vale, to which he appertain’d22With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,23And for the outrage which he had devis’d24Entire forgiveness!——But if thou art one25On fire with thy impatience to become26An inmate of these mountains, if disturb’d27By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn28Out of the quiet rock the elements29119Of thy trim mansion destin’d soon to blaze30In snow-white glory, think again, and taught31By old Sir William and his quarry, leave32Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;33There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself,34And let the Red-breast hop from stone to stone.35

If Nature, for a favorite Child1In thee hath temper’d so her clay,2That every hour thy heart runs wild3Yet never once doth go astray,4

Read o’er these lines; and then review5This tablet, that thus humbly rears6In such diversity of hue7Its history of two hundred years.8

—When through this little wreck of fame,9Cypher and syllable! thine eye10Has travell’d down to Matthew’s name,11Pause with no common sympathy.12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And on that morning, through the grass,9And by the steaming rills,10We travell’d merrily, to pass11A day among the hills.12

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

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

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

“And just above yon slope of corn25“Such colours, and no other26“Were in the sky, that April morn,27Of this the very brother.28

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now, Matthew! let us try to match9“This water’s pleasant tune10“With some old Border-song, or Catch11“That suits a summer’s noon.12

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Blackbird in the summer trees,37“The Lark upon the hill,38“Let loose their carols when they please,39“Are quiet when they will.40

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

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

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

“My days, my Friend, are almost gone,53“My life has been approv’d,54“And many love me; but by none55“Am I enough belov’d.”56

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

“And, Matthew, for thy Children dead61“I’ll be a son to thee!”62At this he grasp’d his hands, and said63“Alas! that cannot be.”64

We rose up from the fountain-side;65And down the smooth descent66Of the green sheep-track did we glide;67And through the wood we went;68

And, ere we came to Leonard’s Rock,69He sang those witty rhymes70About the crazy old church-clock71And the bewilder’d chimes.72

————————— It seems a day,1(I speak of one from many singled out)2One of those heavenly days which cannot die,3When forth I sallied from our Cottage-door,*4And with a wallet o’er my shoulder slung,5A nutting crook in hand, I turn’d my steps6Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,7Trick’d out in proud disguise of Beggar’s weeds8Put on for the occasion, by advice9And exhortation of my frugal Dame.10*The house at which I was boarded during the time I
was at School.133Motley accoutrement! of power to smile11At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,12More ragged than need was. Among the woods,13And o’er the pathless rocks, I forc’d my way14Until, at length, I came to one dear nook15Unvisited, where not a broken bough16Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign17Of devastation, but the hazels rose18Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,19A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,20Breathing with such suppression of the heart21As joy delights in ; and with wise restraint22Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed23The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate24Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play’d;25A temper known to those, who, after long26And weary expectation, have been bless’d27With sudden happiness beyond all hope.—28—Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves29The violets of five seasons re-appear30134And fade, unseen by any human eye;31Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on32For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,33And with my cheek on one of those green stones34That, fleec’d with moss, beneath the shady trees,35Lay round me, scatter’d like a flock of sheep,36I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,37In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay38Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,39The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,40Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,41And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,42And dragg’d to earth both branch and bough, with crash43And merciless ravage; and the shady nook44Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,45Deform’d and sullied, patiently gave up46Their quiet being : and, unless I now47Confound my present feelings with the past,48Even then, when from the bower I turn’d away49Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,50135I felt a sense of pain when I beheld51The silent trees and the intruding sky.—52

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

Her Teacher I myself will be,7She is my darling;—and with me8The Girl, in rock and plain,9In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,10Shall feel an overseeing power11To kindle or restrain.12

She shall be sportive as the Fawn13That wild with glee across the lawn14Or up the mountain springs;15And hers shall be the breathing balm,16And hers the silence and the calm17Of mute insensate things.18

The floating Clouds their state shall lend19To her; for her the willow bend;20Nor shall she fail to see21Even in the motions of the Storm22Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form23By silent sympathy.24

The Stars of midnight shall be dear25To her; and she shall lean her ear26In many a secret place27Where Rivulets dance their wayward round,28And beauty born of murmuring sound29Shall pass into her face.30

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

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

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;1I heard a voice; it said, “Drink, pretty Creature, drink!”2And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied,3A snow white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.4

No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,5And by a slender cord was tether’d to a stone;6With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel7While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.8

The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took9Seem’d to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.10“Drink, pretty Creature, drink,” she said in such a tone11That I almost receiv’d her heart into my own.12

’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare!13I watch’d them with delight, they were a lovely pair.14Now with her empty Can the Maiden turn’d away;15But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.16

Towards the Lamb she look’d; and from that shady place5I unobserv’d could see the workings of her face:18If Nature to her tongue could measur’d numbers bring19Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might sing.20

“What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?21“Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?22“Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be;23“Rest little Young One, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?24

“What is it thou would’st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?25“Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:26“This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no peers;27“And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!28

“If the Sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,29“This beech is standing by, its covert thou can’st gain;30“For rain and mountain storms! the like thou need’st not fear—31“The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.32

“Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day33“When my Father found thee first in places far away:34“Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert own’d by none;35“And by thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.36

“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:37“A blessed day for thee! then whither would’st thou roam?38“A faithful Nurse thou hast, the Dam that did thee yean39“Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.40

“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can41“Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran:42“And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew43“I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.44

“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,45“Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;46“My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold47“Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.48

“It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature can it be49“That ’tis thy Mother’s heart which is working so in thee?50“Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,51“And dreams of things which thou can’st neither see nor hear.52

“Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!53“I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;54“The little Brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,55“When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey.56

“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;57“Night and day thou art safe,—our Cottage is hard by.58“Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?59“Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”60

—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,61This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;62And it seem’d, as I retrac’d the ballad line by line,63That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.64

Again, and once again did I repeat the song;65“Nay” said I, “more than half to the Damsel must belong,66For she look’d with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,67That I almost receiv’d her heart into my own.”68

A fig for your languages, German and Norse!1Let me have the song of the Kettle;2And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse3That gallops away with such fury and force4On this dreary dull plate of black metal.5

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff;6But her pulses beat slower and slower:7The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,8And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood low enough;9And now it is four degrees lower.10

Here’s a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps11A child of the field, or the grove;12And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat13Has seduc’d the poor fool from his winter retreat,14And he creeps to the edge of my stove.15

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains16Which this comfortless oven environ;17He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,18Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall,19And now on the brink of the iron.20

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz’d;21The best of his skill he has tried;22His feelers methinks I can see him put forth23To the East and the West, and the South and the North;24But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.25

See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh;26His eyesight and hearing are lost;27Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;28And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze29Are glued to his sides by the frost.30

No Brother, no Friend has he near him—while I31Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;32As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,33As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,34And woodbines were hanging above.35

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!36Thy life I would gladly sustain37Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds38Of thy brethren a march thou should’st sound through the clouds,39And back to the forests again,40

“Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away!1“Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;2“The Hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds,3“And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.”4

—Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet and green,5On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;6With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,7The Girls on the hills made a holiday show.8

The bason of box-wood,* just six months before,9Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door;10* In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral
takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at
148A Coffin through Timothy’s threshold had pass’d;11One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.12

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,13The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!14Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut15With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.16

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,17“The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.”18But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,19And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.20

I saw an aged beggar in my walk,1And he was seated by the highway side2On a low structure of rude masonry3Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they4Who lead their horses down the steep rough road5May thence remount at ease. The aged Man6Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone7

That overlays the pile, and from a bag8All white with flour the dole of village dames,9He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,10And scann’d them with a fix’d and serious look11Of idle computation. In the sun12Upon the second step of that small pile,13Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,14He sate, and eat his food in solitude:15And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,16That, still attempting to prevent the waste,17Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers18Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,19Not venturing yet to peck their destin’d meal,20Approach’d within the length of half his staff.21

Him from my childhood have I known; and then22He was so old, he seems not older now;23He travels on, a solitary Man,24

So helpless in appearance, that for him25The sauntering Horseman-traveller does not throw26With careless hand his alms upon the ground,27But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin28Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,29But still when he has given his horse the rein30Towards the aged Beggar turns a look,31Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tends32The Toll-gate, when in summer at her door33She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees34The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,35And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.36The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o’ertake37The aged Beggar, in the woody lane, 38Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance39The old Man does not change his course, the Boy40Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,41And passes gently by, without a curse42

Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.43He travels on, a solitary Man,44His age has no companion. On the ground45His eyes are turn’d, and, as he moves along,46They move along the ground; and, evermore,47Instead of common and habitual sight48Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,49And the blue sky, one little span of earth50Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,51Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,52He plies his weary journey; seeing still,53And never knowing that he sees, some straw,54Some scatter’d leaf, or marks which, in one track,55The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left56Impress’d on the white road, in the same line,57At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!58His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet59Disturb the summer dust; he is so still60

In look and motion, that the cottage curs,61Ere he have pass’d the door, will turn away,62Weary of barking at him. Boys and Girls,63The vacant and the busy, Maids and Youths,64And Urchins newly breech’d all pass him by:65Him even the slow-pac’d Waggon leaves behind.66