Page
Hart-leap Well - - - - - - - 1
There was a Boy, &c - - - - - 14
The Brothers - - - - - - - 17
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 - - - - - - - - 248

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 hands7Pressed 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 watery vale, and shout again12Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,13And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud14Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild15Of mirth and jocund din! And, when it chanced16

That pauses of deep silence mocked 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, received24Into the bosom of the steady lake.25

This Boy was taken from his Mates, and died26In childhood, ere he was ten years old.27Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot,28The Vale where he was born : the Church-yard hangs29Upon a slope above the Village School,30And there, along that bank, when I have passed 31At evening, I believe, that oftentimes32A full half-hour together I have stood33Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies.34

“ These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live1A profitable life: some glance along,2Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,3And they were butterflies to wheel about4Long as their summer lasted : some, as wise,5Upon the forehead of a jutting crag6Sit perched, with book and pencil on their knee,7And look and scribble, scribble on and look,8Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,9Or reap an acre of his neighbour’s corn.10

But, for that moping Son of Idleness,11Why can he tarry yonder ?—In our church-yard12Is neither epitaph nor monument,13Tomb-stone nor name—only the turf we tread,14And 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,19Employed in winter’s work. Upon the stone20His Wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,21While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,22He fed the spindle of his youngest Child,23Who turned 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 locked; 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 changed his calling, with the mariners39A fellow-mariner, and so had fared40Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared41Among 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 filled the steady sail,47And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,48

Lengthening invisibly its weary line49Along 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 foam53Flashed 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 grazed59On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,60And shepherds clad in the same country gray61Which he himself had worn*.62

And now at lengthFrom perils manifold, with some small wealth63

Acquired by traffic in the Indian Isles,64To his paternal home he is returned,65With a determined purpose to resume66The life which he lived 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 approached his home, his heart74Failed in him; and, not venturing to inquire75Tidings of one whom he so dearly loved,76Towards the church-yard he had turned aside,77That, as he knew in what particular spot78His family were laid, he thence might learn79If still his Brother lived, or to the file80Another grave was added.—He had found81Another grave, near which a full half-hour82He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew83Such a confusion in his memory,84

That he began to doubt, and he had hopes85That he had seen this heap of turf before,86That it was not another grave, but one87He 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 perceived93Strange alteration wrought on every side94Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,95And the eternal hills, themselves were changed.96

By this the Priest, who down the field had come97Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate98Stopped short, and thence, at leisure, limb by limb99He scanned 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:103

His arms have a perpetual holiday;104The 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 overarched the gate110Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared111The good man might have communed with himself, 112But that the stranger, who had left the grave,113Approached; he recognized the Priest at once,114And, after greetings interchanged, 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 remembered? Scarce a funeral12226

Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months;123And 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 passed this road,129There was a foot-way all along the fields130By the brook-side—’tis gone—and that dark cleft!131To me it does not seem to wear the face132Which then it had.133

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

LEONARD. But, surely, yonder—

PRIEST.Aye, there, indeed, your memory is a friend135That does not play you false—On that tall pike136(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)13727

There were two Springs which bubbled side by side,138As 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 felled:—and then for our own homes!155A Child is born or christened, a Field ploughed,156A Daughter sent to service, a Web spun,15728

The old House-clock is decked with a new face;158And 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—162Yours was a stranger’s judgment: for Historians,163Commend me to these valleys.164

LEONARD. Yet your Church-yardSeems, 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,168Cross-bones or skull, type of our earthly state169Or emblem of our hopes: the dead man’s home170Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.171

PRIEST.Why, there, Sir, is a thought that’s new to me.172The Stone-cutters, ’tis true, might beg their bread173If every English Church-yard were like ours:17429

Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth.175We have no need of names and epitaphs;176 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides,177And then, for our immortal part! we want178No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:179The thought of death sits easy on the man180Who has been born and dies among the mountains.181

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

PRIEST. For eight-score winters past,With what I’ve witnessed, and with what I’ve heard,186Perhaps I might; and, on a winter’s evening,187If you were seated at my chimney’s nook,188By turning o’er these hillocks one by one189We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round,19030

Yet all in the broad high-way of the world.191Now there’s a grave—your foot is half upon it,192It looks just like the rest ; and yet that Man193Died broken-hearted.194

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

Priest. That’s Walter Ewbank.He had as white a head and fresh a cheek199As ever were produced by youth and age200Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.201For five long generations had the heart202Of Walter’s forefathers o’erflowed the bounds203Of their inheritance, that single cottage,—204You see it yonder!—and those few green fields.205They toiled and wrought, and still, from Sire to Son,20631

Each struggled, and each yielded as before207A little—yet a little—and old Walter,208They left to him the family heart, and land209With other burthens than the crop it bore.210Year after year the old man still kept up211A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond,212Interest and mortgages; at last he sank,213And went into his grave before his time.214Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him215God only knows, but to the very last216He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:217His pace was never that of an old man:218I almost see him tripping down the path219With his two Grandsons after him—but You,220Unless our Landlord be your host to-night,221Have far to travel, and in these rough paths222Even in the longest day of midsummer—223

Leonard.But these two Orphans!224

Priest. Orphans! such they were—22432

Yet not while Walter lived—for, though their parents225Lay buried side by side as now they lie,226The old Man was a father to the boys,227Two fathers in one father: and if tears,228Shed when he talked of them where they were not,229And hauntings from the infirmity of love,230Are aught of what makes up a mother’s heart,231This old Man in the day of his old age232Was half a mother to them.—If you weep, Sir,233To hear a Stranger talking about Strangers,234Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!235Aye. You may turn that way—it is a grave236Which will bear looking at.237

Leonard. These Boys—I hope237They loved this good old Man ?—238

Priest. They did—and truly:But that was what we almost overlooked,23933

They were such darlings of each other. For240Though from their cradles they had lived with Walter,241The only Kinsman near them in the house,242Yet he being old, they had much love to spare,243And it all went into each other’s hearts.244Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,245Was two years taller: ’twas a joy to see,246To hear, to meet them! from their house the School247Was distant three short miles—and in the time248Of storm and thaw, when every water-course249And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed250Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,251Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,252Would Leonard then, when elder boys perhaps253Remained at home, go staggering through the fords254Bearing his Brother on his back. I’ve seen him,255On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,256Aye, more than once I’ve seen him mid-leg deep,25734

Their two books lying both on a dry stone258Upon the hither side: and once I said,259As I remember, looking round these rocks260And hills on which we all of us were born,261That God who made the great book of the world262Would bless such piety—263

Leonard. It may be then—

Priest.Never did worthier lads break English bread!264The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw,265With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,266Could never keep these boys away from church,267Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.268Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner269Among these rocks, and every hollow place270Where foot could come, to one or both of them271Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.272Like Roe-bucks they went bounding o’er the hills:27335

They played like two young Ravens on the crags:274Then they could write, aye and speak too, as well275As many of their betters—and for Leonard!276The very night before he went away,277In my own house I put into his hand278A Bible, and I’d wager twenty pounds,279That, if he is alive, he has it yet.280

Leonard.It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be281A comfort to each other.—282

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

Leonard. Then James still is left among you?

Priest.’Tis of the elder Brother I am speaking:28736

They had an Uncle, he was at that time288A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:289And, but for this same Uncle, to this hour290Leonard had never handled rope or shroud.291For the Boy loved the life which we lead here;292And, though a very Stripling, twelve years old,293His soul was knit to this his native soil.294But, as I said, old Walter was too weak295To strive with such a torrent; when he died,296The Estate and House were sold, and all their Sheep,297A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,278Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years.299Well—all was gone, and they were destitute.300And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother’s sake,301Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.302’Tis now twelve years since we had tidings from him.303If there was one among us who had heard304That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,30537

From the Great Gavel*, down by Leeza’s Banks, 306And down the Enna, far as Egremont,307The day would be a very festival,308And those two bells of ours, which there you see309Hanging in the open air—but, O good Sir!310This is sad talk—they’ll never sound for him311Living or dead.—When last we heard of him312He was in slavery among the Moors313Upon the Barbary Coast.—’Twas not a little314That would bring down his spirit, and, no doubt,315Before it ended in his death, the Lad316Was sadly crossed--Poor Leonard! when we parted,317

* The great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resem-
blance to the Gable end of a house, is one of the highest
of the Cumberland 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 below Egremont.

Leonard. If that dayShould come, ’twould needs be a glad day for him;322He would himself, no doubt, be as happy then323As any that should meet him—324

Priest. Happy! Sir—

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

Priest. That is butA fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth327James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;328And Leonard being always by his side32939

Had done so many offices about him,330That, though he was not of a timid nature,331Yet still the spirit of a Mountain Boy332In him was somewhat checked; and, when his Brother333Was gone to sea and he was left alone,334The little colour that he had was soon335Stolen from his cheek, he drooped, and pined and pined—336

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

Priest.Aye, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us.338He was the Child of all the dale—he lived339Three months with one, and six months with another;340And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:341And many, many happy days were his.342But, whether blithe or sad, ’tis my belief343His absent Brother still was at his heart.34440

And, when he lived beneath our roof, we found345(A practice till this time unknown to him)346That often, rising from his bed at night,347He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping348He sought his Brother Leonard.—You are moved!349Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,350I judged you most unkindly.351

Leonard. But this Youth,How did he die at last? 352

Priest. One sweet May morning,It will be twelve years since, when Spring returns,353He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,354With two or three Companions whom it chanced355Some further business summoned to a house356Which stands at the Dale-head. James, tired perhaps,357Or from some other cause, remained behind.358You see yon Precipice—it almost looks35941

Like some vast building made of many crags;360And in the midst is one particular rock361That rises like a column from the vale,362Whence by our Shepherds it is called the Pillar.363James pointed to its summit, over which364They all had purposed to return together,365And told them that he there would wait for them:366They parted, and his Comrades passed that way367Some two hours after, but they did not find him368Upon the Pillar—at the appointed place.369Of this they took no heed: but one of them, 370Going by chance, at night, into the house371Which at that time was James’s home, there learned372That nobody had seen him all that day:373The morning came, and still, he was unheard of:374The neighbours were alarmed, and to the Brook375Some went, and some towards the Lake: ere noon376They found him at the foot of that same Rock—377Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after378I buried him, poor Lad, and there he lies.379

Leonard.And that then is his grave?—Before his death380You say that he saw many happy years?381

Priest.Aye, that he did—382

Leonard. And all went well with him—

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

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

Priest.Yes, long before he died, he found that time385Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless386His thoughts were turned on Leonard’s luckless fortune,387He talked about him with a cheerful love.388

Leonard.He could not come to an unhallowed end!389

Priest.Nay, God forbid! You recollect I mentioned390A habit which disquietude and grief391Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured392That, as the day was warm, he had lain down393Upon the grass, and, waiting for his comrades,394He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep395He to the margin of the precipice396Had walked, and from the summit had fallen head-long.397And so no doubt he perished: at the time,398We guess, that in his hands he must have had399His Shepherd’s staff; for midway in the cliff400It had been caught ; and there for many years401It hung—and mouldered there.402

The Priest here ended— The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt403Tears rushing in. Both left the spot in silence;404And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate,405

As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,406And, looking at the grave, he said, “My Brother.”407The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,408Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated409That Leonard would partake his homely fare:410The other thanked him with a fervent voice,411But added, that, the evening being calm,412He would pursue his journey. So they parted.413

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove414That overhung the road: he there stopped short,415And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed416All that the Priest had said: his early years417Were with him in his heart: his cherished hopes,418And thoughts which had been his an hour before,419All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,420This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed421A place in which he could not bear to live:422So he relinquished all his purposes.423He travelled on to Egremont: and thence,424

That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest425Reminding him of what had passed between them;426And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,427That it was from the weakness of his heart428He had not dared to tell him who he was.429

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now430A Seaman, a gray-headed Mariner.431

Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate1Upon the Braes of Kirtle,2Was lovely as a Grecian Maid3Adorned 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 proclaimed with truth,14If Bruce hath loved 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, couched behind a thorn,22Sees them and their caressing,23Beholds them blest and blessing.24

Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts25That through his brain are travelling,26And, starting up, to Bruce’s heart27He lanched a deadly javelin!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, sailed 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 loved, 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 fixed my eye,9All over the wide lea:10My Horse trudged on—and we drew nigh11Those paths so dear to me.12

And now we reached the orchard plot;13And, as we climbed 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 moved on; hoof after hoof21He raised, and never stopped:22When down behind the cottage roof23At once the Planet dropped.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 And 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 lived unknown, and few could know 9 When Lucy ceased 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 seemed 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,6Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course7 With rocks and stones and trees!8

“Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”1Exclaimed a thundering Voice,2“Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self3Between me and my choice!”4A falling Water swoln with snows5Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,6That, all bespattered with his foam,7And dancing high, and dancing low,8Was living, as a child might know,9In an unhappy home.10

“Dost thou presume my course to block?11Off, off! or, puny Thing!12I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock13To which thy fibres cling.”14The Flood was tyrannous and strong;15The patient Briar suffered long,16Nor did he utter groan or sigh,17Hoping the danger would be past:18But seeing no relief, at last19He ventured to reply.20

“Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not;21Why should we dwell in strife?22We who in this, our natal spot,23Once lived a happy life!24You stirred me on my rocky bed—25What pleasure through my veins you spread!26The Summer long from day to day27My leaves you freshened and bedewed;28Nor was it common gratitude29That did your cares repay.30

“When Spring came on with bud and bell,31Among these rocks did I32Before you hang my wreath, to tell33That gentle days were nigh!34And in the sultry summer hours35I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;36And in my leaves, now shed and gone,37The Linnet lodged, and for us two38Chanted his pretty songs, when You39Had little voice or none.40

“But now proud thoughts are in your breast—41What grief is mine you see.42Ah! would you think, even yet how blest43Together we might be!44Though of both leaf and flower bereft,45Some ornaments to me are left—46Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,47With which I in my humble way48Would deck you many a winter’s day,49A happy Eglantine!”50

What more he said I cannot tell.51The stream came thundering down the dell,52And galloped loud and fast;63I listened, nor aught else could hear,64The Briar quaked—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 cheerful noon—15The thaw-wind with the breath of June16Breathed gently frem the warm South-west;17When, in a voice sedate with age,18This Oak, half giant and half sage,19His neighbour thus addressed:20

“Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,21Along this mountain’s edge22The Frost hath wrought both night and day,23Wedge driving after wedge.24Look up! and think, above your head25What trouble surely will be bred;26Last night I heard a crash—’tis true,27The splinters took another road—28I see them yonder—what a load29For such a Thing as you!30

“You are preparing as before31To deck your slender shape;32And yet, just three years back—no more—33You had a strange escape.34Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,35It came, you know, with fire and smoke36And hitherward it bent its way.37 This pond’rous Block was caught by me,38And o’er your head, as you may see,39’Tis hanging to this day!40

“The Thing had better been asleep,41Whatever thing it were,42Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep,43That first did plant you there.44For you and your green twigs decoy45The little witless Shepherd-boy46To come and slumber in your bower;47And, trust me, on some sultry noon,48Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!49Will perish in one hour.50

“From me this friendly warning take”—51The Broom began to doze,52And thus to keep herself awake53Did gently interpose:54“My thanks for your discourse are due;55That it is true, and more than true,56I know, and I have known it long;57Frail is the bond, by which we hold58Our being, be we young or old,59Wise, foolish, weak or strong.60

“Disasters, do the best we can,61Will reach both great and small;62And he is oft the wisest man,63Who is not wise at all.64For me, why should I wish to roam?65This spot is my paternal home,66It is my pleasant Heritage;67My Father many a happy year68Here spread his careless blossoms, here69Attained a good old age.70

“Even such as his may be my lot.71What cause have I to haunt72My heart with terrors? Am I not73In truth a favoured plant!74The Spring for me a garland weaves75Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves;76And, when the Frost is in the sky,77My branches are so fresh and gay78That You might look at me and say,79This Plant can never die.80

“The Butterfly, all green and gold,81To me hath often flown,82Here in my Blossoms to behold83Wings lovely as his own.84When grass is chill with rain or dew,85Beneath my shade the mother Ewe86Lies with her infant Lamb; I see87The love they to each other make,79And the sweet joy, which they partake,89It 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 renewed.94But in the branches of the Oak95Two Ravens now began to croak96Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;97And to her own green bower the breeze98That instant brought two stripling Bees99To feed and murmur there.100

One night the Wind came from the North101And blew a furious blast;102At break of day I ventured forth,103And near the Cliff I passed.104The storm had fallen upon the Oak105And struck him with a mighty stroke,106And whirled and whirled 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 prevailed; 23Too soon my heartless spirit failed; 24When you were gone my limbs were stronger; 25And oh how grievously I rue, 26That, afterwards, a little longer, 27My Friends, I did not follow you! 28For strong and without pain I lay, 29My Friends, when you were gone away. 30

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

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

I’ll follow you across the snow; 51You travel heavily and slow: 52In spite of all my weary pain, 53I’ll look upon your tents again. 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 know 63If they have any life or no. 64My poor forsaken child! if I 65For once could have thee close to me, 66With happy heart I then should die, 67And my last thoughts would happy be. 68I feel my body die away, 69I shall not see another day.70

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:1And, when I crossed the Wild,2I chanced 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—13You to the Town must go;14And take a lantern, Child, to light15Your Mother through the snow.”16

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

At this the Father raised his hook21And snapped 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 powdery snow,27That rises up like smoke.28

The storm came on before its time:29She wandered up and down;30And many a hill did Lucy climb,31But never reached 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 overlooked the Moor;38And thence they saw the Bridge of wood,39A furlong from their door.40

And now they homeward turned, and cried41“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 tracked the footmarks small;46And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,47And by the long stone-wall:48

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

They followed from the snowy bank53The 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 unhallowed 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 supprest?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 choose another tree.28

“Roll back, sweet Rill! Back to thy mountain bounds,29And there for ever be thy waters chained!30For thou dost haunt the air with sounds31That cannot be sustained;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 towers,37(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 dance46Equipped 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 today.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 universally
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 through 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 chants 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 yew35We’ll for our Whistles 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 stopped 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 on,45And follow me where I shall lead”—46The other 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 gained58The middle of the arch.59When list! he hears a piteous moan—60Again!—his heart within him dies—61His pulse is stopped, 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 slipped 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 recovered heart, and told80The sight which he had seen.81Both gladly now deferred their task;82Nor was there wanting other aid—83A Poet, one who loves the brooks84Far better than the sages’ books,85By chance had thither strayed;86And there the helpless Lamb he found87By those huge rocks encompassed 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 maimed nor scarred.”94Then up the steep ascent they hied,95And 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 passed 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 tripped 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 passed 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 world6Removed, and the affections of the world,7He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left8A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved9As his own soul. And, when within his cave10Alone he knelt before the crucifix11While o’er the Lake the cataract of Lodore1290Pealed to his orisons, and when he paced13Along the beach of this small isle and thought14Of his Companion, he would pray that both15Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain16So prayed he:—as our Chronicles report,17Though here the Hermit numbered 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 maintained2Proportions more harmonious, and approached3To 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 displayed9The 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-dropped 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 withered fern,18(A lading which he with his sickle cuts19Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof20He makes his summer couch, and here at noon21Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unshorn, the Sheep22Panting beneath the burthen of their wool23Lie round him, even as if they were a part24Of his own Household: nor, while from his bed25He through that door-place looks toward the lake26And to the stirring breezes, does he want27Creations lovely as the work of sleep,28Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.29

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 widowed 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 breed1His children up to waste and pillage.2I wish the press-gang or the drum3With its tantara sound, would come4And 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 alone,14And 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 chanced that Andrew passed 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 stooped and took the penny up:26And when the Cripple nearer drew,27Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown,28What a man finds is all his own,29And so, my friend, good day to you.”30

And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys31Will all be trained to waste and pillage;32And wished 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 seemed to live; her thoughts her own;14Herself her own delight:15Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,16She passed 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 breeze,23And made a gallant crest.24

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:25Ah no! he spake the English tongue,26And bore 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 run,35Had 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 shade,47Were perilous to hear.48

He told of Girls, a happy rout!49Who quit their fold with dance and shout,50Their 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 hour 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 vain,69Encompassed me on every side70When I, in confidence and pride,71Had crossed the Atlantic Main.72

“It was a fresh and glorious world,73A banner bright that was unfurled74Before me suddenly:75I looked upon those hills and plains,76And seemed as if let loose from chains77To live at liberty.78

“But wherefore speak of this? for now,79Sweet Ruth! with thee, I know not how,80I feel my spirit burn—81Even as the east when day comes forth;82And to the west, and south, and north,83The morning doth return.84

“It is a purer, better mind:85O Maiden innocent and kind,86What sights I might have seen!”87Even now upon my eyes they break!88—And he again began to speak89Of Lands where he had been.90

He told of the Magnolia** Magnolia grandiflora., spread91High as a cloud, high over head!92The Cypress and her spire,93—Of flowers//The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels. that with one scarlet gleam94Cover a hundred leagues, and seem95To set the hills on fire.96

The Youth of green savannahs spake,97And many an endless, endless lake,98With all its fairy crowds99Of islands, that together lie100As quietly as spots of sky101Among the evening clouds.102

And then he said “How sweet it were103A fisher or a hunter there,104A gardener in the shade,105Still wandering with an easy mind106To build a household fire, and find107A home in every glade!108

“What days and what sweet years! Ah me!109Our life were life indeed, with thee110So passed in quiet bliss,111And all the while,” said he, “to know112That we were in a world of woe,113On such an earth as this!”114

And then he sometimes interwove115Dear thoughts about a Father’s love,116“For there,” said he, “are spun117Around the heart such tender ties,118That our own children to our eyes119Are dearer than the sun.120

“Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me121My helpmate in the woods to be,122Our shed at night to rear;123Or run, my own adopted Bride,124A sylvan Huntress at my side,125And drive the flying deer!126

“Beloved Ruth!”—No more he said.127Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed128A solitary tear.129She thought again—and did agree130With him to sail across the sea,131And drive the flying deer.132

“And now, as fitting is and right,133We in the Church our faith will plight,134A Husband and a Wife.”135Even so they did; and I may say136That to sweet Ruth that happy day137Was more than human life.138

Through dream and vision did she sink,139Delighted all the while to think140That, on those lonesome floods,141And green savannahs, she should share142His board with lawful joy, and bear143His name in the wild woods.144

But, as you have before been told,145This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,146And with his dancing crest147So beautiful, through savage lands148Had roamed about with vagrant bands149Of Indians in the West.150

The wind, the tempest roaring high,151The tumult of a tropic sky,152Might well be dangerous food153For him, a Youth to whom was given154So much of earth so much of Heaven,155And such impetuous blood.156

Whatever in those Climes he found157Irregular in sight or sound158Did to his mind impart159A kindred impulse, seemed allied160To his own powers, and justified161The workings of his heart.162

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought163The beauteous forms of nature wrought,164Fair trees and lovely flowers;165The breezes their own languor lent;166The stars had feelings, which they sent167Into those magic bowers.168

Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween169That sometimes there did intervene170Pure hopes of high intent;171For passions linked to forms so fair172And stately needs must have their share173Of noble sentiment.174

But ill he lived, much evil saw175With men to whom no better law176Nor better life was known;177Deliberately and undeceived178Those wild men’s vices he received,179And gave them back his own.180

His genius and his moral frame181Were thus impaired, and he became182The slave of low desires:183A Man who without self-controul184Would seek what the degraded soul185Unworthily admires.186

And yet he with no feigned delight187Had wooed the maiden, day and night188Had loved her, night and morn:189What could he less than love a Maid190Whose heart with so much nature played?191So kind and so forlorn!192

But now the pleasant dream was gone;193No hope, no wish remained, not one,194They stirred him now no more;195New objects did new pleasure give,196And once again he wished to live197As lawless as before.198

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,199They for the voyage were prepared,200And went to the sea-shore;201But, when they thither came, the Youth202Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth203Could never find him more.204

“God help thee Ruth!”—Such pains she had205That she in half a year was mad206And in a prison housed;207And there, exulting in her wrongs,208Among the music of her songs209She fearfully caroused.210

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,211Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,212Nor pastimes of the May,213—They all were with her in her cell;214And a wild brook with cheerful knell215Did o’er the pebbles play.216

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain217There came a respite to her pain,218She from her prison fled;219But of the Vagrant none took thought;220And where it liked her best she sought221Her shelter and her bread.222

Among the fields she breathed again:223The master-current of her brain224Ran permanent and free;225And, coming to the Banks of Tone**The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.,226There did she rest; and dwell alone227Under the greenwood tree.228

The engines of her pain, the tools229That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,230And airs that gently stir231The vernal leaves, she loved them still,232Nor ever taxed them with the ill233Which had been done to her.234

A Barn her winter bed supplies;235But till the warmth of summer skies236And summer days is gone,237(And all do in this tale agree)238She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,239And other home hath none.240

An innocent life, yet far astray!241And Ruth will, long before her day,242Be broken down and old.243Sore aches she needs must have! but less244Of mind, than body’s wretchedness,245From damp, and rain, and cold.246

If she is pressed by want of food,247She from her dwelling in the wood248Repairs to a road-side;249And there she begs at one steep place,250Where up and down with easy pace251The horsemen-travellers ride.252

That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,253Or thrown away; but with a flute254Her loneliness she cheers:255This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,256At evening in his homeward walk257The Quantock Woodman hears.258

I, too, have passed her on the hills259Setting her little water-mills260By spouts and fountains wild—261Such small machinery as she turned262Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,263A young and happy Child!264

Farewell! and when thy days are told,265Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould266Thy corpse shall buried be;267For thee a funeral bell shall ring,268And all the congregation sing269A Christian psalm for thee.270

Stranger! this hillock of misshapen stones1Is not a ruin of the antient 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 destined to be built6Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.7But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned8That 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 unfinished task.——13The block on which these lines are traced, 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 wondered at the work. But blame him not,20For old Sir William was a gentle Knight21Bred in this vale, to which he appertained22With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,23And for the outrage which he had devised24Entire forgiveness!——But if thou art one25On fire with thy impatience to become26An inmate of these mountains, if, disturbed27By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn28Out of the quiet rock the elements29119Of thy trim mansion destined 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 Redbreast hop from stone to stone.35

If Nature, for a favourite Child1In thee hath tempered so her clay,2That every hour thy heart runs wild,3Yet 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 travelled down to Matthew’s name,11Pause with no common sympathy.12

And, if a sleeping tear should wake,13Then be it neither checked nor stayed: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 heaved were sighs21Of one tired 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 seemed 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 to thee?32

We walked along, while bright and red1Uprose the morning sun;2And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,3“The will of God be done!”4

A village Schoolmaster was he,5With hair of glittering gray;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 travelled merrily, to pass11A day among the hills.12

“Our work,” said I, “was well begun;13Then, from thy breast what thought,14Beneath so beautiful a sun,15So 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 cleft21Brings fresh into my mind22A day like this which I have left23Full thirty years behind.24

“And just above yon slope of corn25Such colours, and no other26Were in the sky, that April morn,27Of this the very brother.28

“With rod and line my silent sport29I plied by Derwent’s wave;30And, coming to the church, stopp’d short31Beside my daughter’s grave.32

“Nine summers had she scarcely seen,33The pride of all the vale;34And then she sung;—she would have been35A very nightingale.36

“Six feet in earth my Emma lay;37And yet I loved her more,38For so it seemed, than till that day39I e’er had loved before.40

“And turning from her grave, I met41Beside the church-yard Yew42A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet43With points of morning dew.44

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

“No fountain from its rocky cave49E’er tripped with foot so free;50She seemed as happy as a wave51That dances on the sea.52

“There came from me a sigh of pain53Which I could ill confine;54I looked at her and looked again:55—And did not wish her mine.”56Matthew is in his grave, yet now57Methinks I see him stand,58As at that moment, with his bough59Of wilding in his hand.60

We talked 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 match9This water’s pleasant tune10With some old Border-song, or Catch11That suits a summer’s noon.12

“Or of the Church-clock and the chimes13Sing here beneath the shade,14That half-mad thing of witty rhymes15Which you last April made!”16

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed17The spring beneath the tree;18And thus the dear old man replied,19The gray-haired man of glee:20

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

“And here, on this delightful day,25I cannot choose but think26How oft, a vigorous man, I lay27Beside this Fountain’s brink.28

“My eyes are dim with childish tears,29My heart is idly stirred,30For the same sound is in my ears31Which in those days I heard.32

“Thus fares it still in our decay:33And yet the wiser mind34Mourns less for what age takes away35Than what it leaves behind.36

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

“With Nature never do they wage41A foolish strife; they see42A happy youth, and their old age43Is beautiful and free:44

“But we are pressed by heavy laws;45And often, glad no more,46We wear a face of joy, because47We have been glad of yore.48

“If there is one who need bemoan49His kindred laid in earth,50The household hearts that were his own,51It is the man of mirth.52

“My days, my Friend, are almost gone,53My life has been approved,54And many love me; but by none55Am I enough beloved.”56

“Now both himself and me he wrongs,57The man who thus complains!58I live and sing my idle songs59Upon these happy plains,60

“And, Matthew, for thy Children dead61I’ll be a son to thee!”62At this he grasped 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 bewildered 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**The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.,4And with a wallet o’er my shoulder slung,5A nutting crook in hand, I turned my steps6Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,7Tricked out in proud disguise of Beggar’s weeds8Put on for the occasion, by advice9And exhortation of my frugal Dame.10Motley accoutrement! of power to smile11133At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,12More ragged than need was. Among the woods,13And o’er the pathless rocks, I forced my way14Until, at length, I came to one dear nook15Unvisited, where not a broken bough16Drooped with its withered 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 played;25A temper known to those, who, after long26And weary expectation, have been blessed27With sudden happiness beyond all hope.—28Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves29The violets of five seasons re-appear30And fade, unseen by any human eye;31134Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on32For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,33And with my cheek on one of those green stones34That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,35Lay round me, scattered 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 dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash43And merciless ravage; and the shady nook44Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,45Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up46Their quiet being: and, unless I now47Confound my present feelings with the past,48Even then, when from the bower I turned away49Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,50135I felt a sense of pain when I beheld51The silent trees and the intruding sky.—52

Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades53In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand54Touch,——for there is a Spirit in the woods.55

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

“Myself will to my darling be7Both law and impulse; 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, this 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 espied3A 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 tethered 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 took9Seemed 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 received her heart into my own.12

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

Towards the Lamb she looked; and from that shady place17I unobserved could see the workings of her face:18If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,19Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid might sing.20

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

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

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

“Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day33When my Father found thee first in places far away;34Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none;35And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.36

“He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:37A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?38A faithful Nurse thou hast, the Dam that did thee yean39Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.40

“Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can41Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran:42And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew43I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.44

“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,45Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;46My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold47Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.48

“It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature, can it be49That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?50Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,51And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.52

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

“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;57Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.58Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?59Sleep—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 seemed, as I retraced 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 looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,67That I almost received 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 seduced 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 bemazed;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 shouldst sound through the clouds,39And back to the forests again.40

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

—Of coats and of jackets gray, 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**In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased., just six months before,9Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door;10148A Coffin through Timothy’s threshold had passed;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 scanned them with a fixed and serious look11Of idle computation. In the sun,12Upon the second step of that small pile,13Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,14He sat, and ate 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 destined meal,20Approached 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 turned, 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 scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,55The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left56Impressed 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