ADVERTISEMENT.

AT the same time that the Editor begs leave to offer the
following as the cause of the little delay that has taken
place in the Publication of these Poems, he begs also re-
spectfully to present his Thanks to those who have been pleased
to favour them with their encouragement by Subscription.

So rapid appears to have been the sale of these Poems in
London after the Publication of the Second Volume the
last summer, that another Edition has been already since
published. This, containing the following lengthy Preface,
the beautiful Ode to Love, and some additional explana-
tory Notes, more than the former Edition, did not reach
this Country till after the present one had been put to Press,
and the First Volume nearly finished. Some little delay, has
arisen from this circumstance, but, at the same time, it has
enabled the Editor to give the Work compleat, which other-
wise would not have been the case ; and though attended with
considerable more expence than he calculated upon when he
put it to press, it will be delivered to the Subscribers at the
Price mentioned in his Proposals. The only difference that
now exists between this and the last London Edition is, that
the Poem entitled the Convict is retained in this Edition,
but omitted in that, and that the Arrangement of the Poems
in the First Volume somewhat differs. The Reader, however,
by turning to them as they follow in the preceding Table of
Contents, will have them as they are arranged in the last
London Edition.

JAMES HUMPHREYS.
Philadelphia,
January, 1802

PREFACE.

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

I had formed no very inaccurate estimate of the probable effect
of those Poems : I flattered myself, that they who should be plea-
sed with them would read them with more than common plea-
sure ; and on the other hand I was well aware, that by those who
should dislike them they would be read with more than common
dislike. The result has differed from my expectation in this on-
ly, that I have pleased a greater number than I ventured to hope
I should please.

For the sake of variety, and from a consciousness of my own
weakness, I was induced to request the assistance of a friend, who
furnished me with the Poems of the Ancient Mariner, the
Foster Mother’s Tale, the Nightingale, the Dun-
geon, and the Poem entitled Love. I should not however, have
requested this assistance, had I not believed, that the Poems of my
friend would, in a great measure, have the same tendency as my
own, and that though there would be found a difference, there
would be found no discordance in the colours of our style ; as
our opinions on the subject of Poetry do almost entirely coin-
cide.

vi

Several of my friends are anxious for the success of these Po-
ems from a belief, that if the views with which they were com-
posed were indeed realized, a Class of Poetry would be produced,
well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and not unim-
portant in the multiplicity and in the quality of its moral rela-
tions ; and on this account, they have advised me to prefix a sys-
tematic defence of the theory, upon which the Poems were written.
But I was unwilling to undertake the task, because I knew that
on this occasion, the Reader would look coldly upon my arguments,
since I might be suspected of having been principally influenced
by the selfish, and foolish hope, of reasoning him into an appro-
tion of these particular Poems ; and I was still more unwilling
to undertake the task, because, adequately to display my opini-
ons, and fully to enforce my arguments, would require a space
wholly disproportionate to the nature of a Preface. For to treat
the subject with the clearness and coherence, of which I believe it
susceptible, it would be necessary, to give a full account of the
present state of the public taste in this country, and to deter-
mine how far this taste is healthy or depraved ; which again
could not be determined, without pointing out in what manner
language and the human mind act and re-act on each other, and
without retracing the revolutions, not of literature alone, but
likewise of society itself. I have therefore altogether declined to
enter regularly upon this defence ; yet I am sensible, that there
would be some impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Pub-
lic, without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially
different from those, upon which general approbation is at pre-
sent bestowed.

It is supposed, that by the act of writing in Verse, an Author
makes a formal engagement that he will gratify certain known
habits of association ; that he not only thus apprizes the Reader
that certain classes of ideas and expressions will be found in his
book, but that others will be carefully excluded. This exponent
or symbol held forth by Metrical language, must in different ras
of literature have excited very different expectations: for exam-
ple, in the age of Catullus Terence and Lucretius, and that of
Statius or Claudian, and in our own country in the age of
Shakespear, and Beaumont and Fletcher, and that of Donne and
vii
Cowley, or Dryden, or Pope. I will not take upon me to deter-
mine the exact import of the promise which, by the act of
writing in Verse, an Author in the present day makes to his
Reader; but I am certain it will appear to many persons, that I
have not fulfilled the terms of an engagement thus voluntarily
contracted. I hope therefore the Reader will not censure me, if I
attempt to state what I have proposed to myself to perform, and
also (as far as the limits of a Preface will permit) to explain some
of the chief reasons which have determined me in the choice of
my purpose ; that at least he may be spared any unpleasant feel-
ing of disappointment, and that I myself may be protected from
the most dishonorable accusation which can be brought against
an Author, namely, that of an indolence which prevents him
from endeavouring to ascertain what is his duty, or when his
duty is aſcertained, prevents him from performing it.

The principal object then which I proposed to myself in these
Poems was, to make the incidents of common life interesting,
by tracing in them, truly, though not ostentatiously, the primary
laws of our Nature ; chiefly as far as regards the manner in
which we associate ideas in a state of excitement. Low and rus-
tic life was generally chosen, because in that situation, the essen-
tial passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can at-
tain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer
and more emphatic language ; because in that situation, our ele-
mentary feelings exist in a state of greater simplicity, and conse-
quently, may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly
communicated ; because, the manners of rural life germinate
from those elementary feelings ; and from the necessary character
of rural occupations are more easily comprehended ; and are more
durable; and lastly, because, in that situation, the passions of
men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent forms
of nature. The language too of these men is adopted (puri-
fied indeed from what appears to be its real defects, from all
lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such
men hourly communicate with the best objects from which
the best part of language is originally derived ; and because,
from their rank in society, and the sameness and narrow cir-
cle of their intercourse, being less under the action of social
viii
vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and un-
elaborated expressions. Accordingly, such a language arising out
of repeated experience and regular feelings is a more permanent,
and a far more philosophical language, than that which is
frequently substituted for it by Poets, who think that they are
conferring honour upon themselves and their art in proportion as
they separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and in-
dulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of expression, in order
to furnish food for fickle tastes and fickle appetites of their own
creation.*

I cannot be insensible of the present outcry against the trivi-
ality and meanness both of thought and language, which some
of my contemporaries have occasionally introduced into their Me-
trical compositions ; and I acknowledge, that this defect where
it exists, is more dishonorable to the Writer’s own character,
than false refinement or arbitrary innovation, though I should
contend at the same time that it is far less pernicious in the sum
of its consequences. From such Verses, the Poems in these Vo-
lumes will be found distinguished at least by one mark of diffe-
rence, that each of them has a worthy purpose. Not that I mean
to say that I always began to write with a distinct purpose for-
mally conceived ; but I believe, that my habits of meditation
have so formed my feelings, as that my descriptions of such ob-
jects as strongly excite those feelings, will be found to carry
along with them a purpose. If in this opinion I am mistaken,
I can have little right to the name of a Poet. For all good Po-
etry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings ; but though
this be true, Poems to which any value can be attached, were
never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man, who,
being possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also
thought long and deeply. For our continued influxes of feelings
are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the
representatives of all our past feelings; and as by contemplating
the relation of these general representatives to each other, we
* It is worth while here to observe, that the affecting parts
of Chaucer are almost always expressed in language pure and univer-
sally intelligible even to this day.ix
discover what is really important to men, so by the repetition
and continuance of this act, feelings connected with important
subjects will be nourished, till at length, if we be originally pos-
sessed of much organic sensibility, such habits of mind will be
produced, that by obeying blindly and mechanically the impul-
ses of those habits, we shall describe objects, and utter senti-
ments of such a nature, and in such connection with each
other, that the understanding of the being to whom we address
ourselves, if he be in a healthful state of association, must ne-
cessarily be in some degree enlightened, his taste exalted, and
his affections ameliorated.

I have said that each of these Poems has a purpose. I have
also informed my Reader what this purpose will be found
principally to be ; namely, to illustrate the manner in which our
feelings and ideas are associated in a state of excitement. But
speaking in less general language, it is to follow the fluxes and
refluxes of the mind when agitated by the great and simple af-
fections of our nature. This object I have endeavoured in these
short essays to attain by various means; by tracing the Mater-
nal passion through many of its more subtle windings, as in the
Poems of the Idiot Boy and the Mad Mother; by accom-
panying the last struggles of a human being at the approach of
death, cleaving in solitude to life and society, as in the Poem of
the Forsaken Indian ; by shewing as in the Stanzas entitled
We are seven, the perplexity and obscurity which in child-
hood attends our notion of death, or rather our utter inability to
admit that notion; or by displaying the strength of fraternal, or
to speak more philosophically, of moral attachment, when early
associated with the great and beautiful objects of Nature, as in
The Brothers ; or, as in the Incident of Simon Lee, by
placing my Reader in the way of receiving from ordinary moral
sensations, another and more salutary impression than we are ac-
customed to receive from them. It has also been part of my
general purpose to attempt to sketch characters under the influ-
ence of less impassioned feelings, as in the Old Man Travel-
ling, the Two Thieves, &c. characters of which the ele-
ments are simple, belonging rather to Nature than to manners,
x
such as exist now, and will probably always exist, and which
from their constitution may be distinctly and profitably contem-
plated. I will not abuse the indulgence of my Reader by dwelling
longer upon this subject ; but it is proper that I should mention
one other circumstance which distinguishes these Poems from
the popular Poetry of the day ; it is this, that the feeling therein
developed gives importance to the action and situation, and not
the action and situation to the feeling. My meaning will be ren-
dered perfectly intelligible by referring my Reader to the Poems
entitled Poor Susan and the Childless Father, particu-
larly to the last Stanza of the latter Poem.

I will not suffer a sense of false modesty to prevent me from
asserting, that I point my Readers attention to this mark of
distinction far less for the sake of these particular Poems, than
from the general importance of the subject. The subject is in-
deed important ! For the human mind is capable of excitement
without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he
must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity, who
does not know this, and who does not further know, that one
being is elevated above another in proportion as he possesses
this capability. It has therefore appeared to me, that to en-
deavour to produce or enlarge this capability is one of the best
services, in which, at any period, a Writer can be engaged ; but
this service, excellent at all times, is especially so at the present
day : For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are
now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating
powers of the mind, and by unfitting it for all voluntary exertion,
to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effec-
tive of these causes are the great National Events which are dai-
ly taking place, and the encreasing accumulation of men in ci-
ties, where the uniformity of the occupations produces a cra-
ving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication
of intelligence hourly gratifies. To this tendency of life and
manners the literature and theatrical exhibitions of the country
have conformed themselves! The invaluable works of our el-
der writers, I had almost said the works of Shakespear and
Milton, are driven into neglect by frantic Novels, sickly and
stupid German Tragedies, and deluges of idle and extravagant
xi
Stories in verse.—When I think upon this degrading thirst after
outrageous stimulation, I am almost ashamed to have spoken
of the feeble effort with which I have endeavoured to counter-
act it ; and reflecting upon the magnitude of the general evil,
I should be oppressed with no dishonorable melancholy, had I
not a deep impression of certain inherent and indestructible qua-
lities of the human mind, and likewise of certain powers in the
great and permanent objects that act upon it, which are equally
inherent and indestructible ; and did I not further add to this
impression a belief, that the time is approaching, when the evil
will be systematically opposed by men of greater powers, and
with far more distinguished success.

Having dwelt thus long on the subjects and aim of these Po-
ems, I shall request the Reader's permission to apprise him of a
few circumstances relating to their style, in order, among
other reasons, that I may not be censured for not having per-
formed what I never attempted. Except in a very few instances
the Reader will find no personifications of abstract ideas in these
Volumes, not that I mean to censure such personifications ; they
may be well fitted for certain sorts of composition, but in these
Poems, I propose to myself to imitate, and, as far as possible to
adopt, the very language of men ; and I do not find that such
personifications make any regular or natural part of that lan-
guage. I wish to keep my Reader in the company of flesh and
blood, persuaded, that by so doing, I shall interest him. Not
but that I believe, that others who pursue a different track, may
interest him likewise : I do not interfere with their claim ; I on-
ly wish to prefer a different claim of my own. There will also be
found in these Volumes little of what is usually called poetic dic-
tion ; I have taken as much pains to avoid it as others ordina-
rily take to produce it; this I have done for the reason already
alleged, to bring my language near to the language of men, and
further, because the pleasure, which I have proposed to myself to
impart, is of a kind very different from that which is supposed
by many persons to be the proper object of Poetry. I do not
know how, without being culpably particular, I can give my
Reader a more exact notion of the style in which I wished these
Poems to be written, than by informing him, that I have at all
xii
times endeavoured to look steadily at my subject, consequently, I
hope it will be found, that there is in these Poems little falsehood
of description, and that my ideas are expressed in language fitted
to their respective importance. Something I must have gained
by this practice, as it is friendly to one property of all good Po-
etry, namely, good sense ; but it has necessarily cut me off from
a large portion of phrases and figures of speech, which, from fa-
ther to son have long been regarded as the common inheritance
of Poets. I have also thought it expedient to restrict myself
still further, having abstained from the use of many expressi-
ons, in themselves proper and beautiful, but which have been
foolishly repeated by bad Poets, till such feelings of disgust are
connected with them as it is scarcely possible by any art of asso-
ciation to overpower.

If in a Poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a
single line, in which the language, though naturally arranged,
and according to the strict laws of Metre, does not differ
from that of Prose, there is a numerous class of critics who,
when they stumble upon these Prosaisms, as they call them, ima-
gine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult over the
Poet as over a man ignorant of his own profession. Now these
men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will
conclude he must utterly reject if he wishes to be pleased with
these Volumes. And it would be a most easy task to prove to
him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good
Poem, even of the most elevated character, must necessarily,
except with reference to the Metre, in no respect differ from that
of good Prose, but likewise, that some of the most interesting
parts of the best Poems will be found to be strictly the language
of Prose, when Prose is well written. The truth of this assertion
might be demonstrated by innumerable passages from almost all
the Poetical writings even of Milton himself. I have not space
for much quotation ; but, to illustrate the subject in a general
manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who
was at the head of those, who by their reasonings have attempted
to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical com-
position, and was more than any other man curiously elaborate
in the structure of his own poetic diction.

xiii

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,1And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire :2The birds in vain their amorous descant join,3Or cheerful fields resume their green attire ;4These ears alas ! for other notes repine ; 5A different object do these eyes require;6My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;7And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;8Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,9And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;10The fields to all their wonted tribute bear ;11To warm their little loves the birds complain.12I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear13And weep the more because I weep in vain.14

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

Is there then, it will be asked, no essential difference between
the language of Prose and Metrical composition ? I answer that
there neither is nor can be any essential difference. We are fond
of tracing the resemblance between Poetry and Painting, and,
accordingly, we call them sisters ; but where shall we finds bonds
of connection sufficiently strict to typify the affinity betwixt
Metrical and Prose composition ? They both speak by and to
the same organs ; the bodies in which both of them are clothed
may be said to be of the same substance, their affections are
kindred and almost identical, not necessarily differing even in
degree ; Poetry * sheds no tears “such as Angels weep,” but
* I here use the word “Poetry” (though against my own judg-
ment) as opposed to the word Prose, and synonymous with Metrical
composition. But much confusion has been introduced into Criticism byxiv
natural and human tears ; she can boast of no celestial Ichor
that distinguishes her vital juices from those of Prose ; the same
human blood circulates through the veins of them both.

If it be affirmed that Rhyme and Metrical arrangement, of
themselves constitute a distinction, which overturns what I have
been saying on the strict affinity of Metrical language with
that of Prose, and paves the way for other distinctions which the
mind voluntarily admits, I answer, that the distinction of Rhyme
and Metre is regular and uniform, and not, like that which is
produced by what is usually called Poetic diction, arbitrary, and
subject to infinite caprices, upon which no calculation whatever
can be made. In the one case, the Reader is utterly at the mercy
of the Poet respecting what imagery or diction he may choose to
connect with the passion, whereas in the other, the Metre obeys
certain laws, to which the Poet and Reader both willingly sub-
mit, because they are certain, and because, no interference is made
by them with the passion, but such as the concurring testimony
of ages has shewn to heighten and improve the pleasure which
co-exists with it.

It will now be proper to answer an obvious question, namely,
why, professing these opinions, have I written in Verse? To this
in the first place I reply, because, however I may have restricted
myself, there is still left open to me, what confessedly constitutes
the most valuable object of all writing, whether in Prose or Verse,
the great and universal Passions of men, the most general and
interesting of their occupations, and the entire world of Nature,
from which I am at liberty to supply myself with endless combi-
nations of forms and imagery. Now, granting for a moment,
that whatever is interesting in these objects may be as vividly de-
scribed in Prose, why am I to be condemned if to such descrip-
tion I have endeavoured to superadd the charm which, by the
consent of all nations, is acknowledged to exist in Metrical lan-
guage ? To this it will be answered that a very small part of the
this contradistinction of Poetry and Prose, instead of the more philo-
sophical one of Poetry and Science. The only strict antithesis to Prose
is Metre.xv
pleasure given by Poetry depends upon the Metre, and that it is
injudicious to write in Metre, unless it be accompanied with the
other artificial distinctions of style with which Metre is usually
accompanied ; and that by such deviation more will be lost from
the shock which will be thereby given to the Reader's associa-
tions, than will be counterbalanced by any pleasure, which he can
derive from the general Power of Numbers. In answer to
those who thus contend for the necessity of accompanying
Metre with certain appropriate colours of style, in order to the
accomplishment of its appropriate end, and who, also, in my
opinion, greatly under-rate the Power of Metre in itself, it
might, perhaps, be almost sufficient to observe, that Poems
are extant, written upon more humble subjects, and in a
more naked and simple style, than what I have aimed at,
which Poems have continued to give pleasure from generation to
generation. Now if nakedness and simplicity be a defect, the
fact here mentioned affords a strong presumption, that Poems
somewhat less naked and simple, are capable of affording pleasure
at the present day ; and all that I am now attempting is—to jus-
tify myself for having written under the impression of this be-
lief.

But I might point out various causes why, when the stile is
manly, and the subject of some importance, words, Metrically ar-
ranged, will long continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind,
as he, who is sensible of the extent of that pleasure, will be desi-
rous to impart. The end of Poetry is to produce excitement in
co-existence with an overbalance of pleasure. Now, by the sup-
position, excitement is an unusual and irregular state of the
mind ; ideas and feelings do not in that state succeed each other
in accustomed order. But, if the words by which this excite-
ment is produced are in themselves powerful, or the images and
feelings have an undue proportion of pain connected with them,
there is some danger, that the excitement may be carried beyond
its proper bounds. Now the co-presence of something regular,
something to which the mind has been accustomed when in an
unexcited, or a less excited state, cannot but have great efficacy,
in tempering and restraining the passion, by an intertexture of
ordinary feeling. This may be illustrated by appealing to the
xvi
Reader's own experience, of the reluctance with which he comes
to the re-perusal of the distressful parts of Clarissa Harlowe, or
the Gamester. While Shakespear’s writings, in the most pa-
thetic scenes, never act upon us as pathetic beyond the bounds
of pleasure—an effect, which is in a great degree to be ascribed to
small, but continual, and regular impulses of pleasurable sur-
prise from the Metrical arrangement—On the other hand (what
it must be allowed will much more frequently happen) if the
Poet’s words should be incommensurate with the passion, and
inadequate to raise the Reader to a height of desirable excite-
ment, then (unless the Poet’s choice of his Metre has been gross-
ly injudicious) in the feelings of pleasure which the Reader has
been accustomed to connect with Metre in general, and in the
feeling, whether chearful or melancholy, which he has been ac-
customed to connect with that particular movement of Metre,
there will be found something, which will greatly contribute to
impart passion to the words, and to effect the complex end
which the Poet proposes to himself.

If I had undertaken a systematic defence of the theory upon
which these poems are written, it would have been my duty to
develope the various causes upon which the pleasure received
from Metrical language depends. Among the chief of these
causes is to be reckoned a principle, which must be well known
to those who have made any of the Arts the object of accurate
reflection ; I mean the pleasure which the mind derives from the
perception of similitude in dissimilitude. This principle is the
great spring of the activity of our minds and their chief feeder.
From this principle the direction of the sexual appetite, and all
the passions connected with it, take their origin. It is the life
of our ordinary conversation ; and upon the accuracy with which
similitude in dissimilitude, and dissimilitude in similitude are
perceived, depend our taste and our moral feelings. It would not
have been a useless employment to have applied this principle to
the consideration of Metre, and to have shewn, that Metre is
hence enabled to afford much pleasure, and to have pointed out
in what manner that pleasure is produced. But my limits will
not permit me to enter upon this subject, and I must content
myself with a general Summary.

xvii

I have said that Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful
feelings. It takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquil-
lity ; the emotion is contemplated till by a species of reaction
the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, similar to
that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradual-
ly produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this
mood successful composition generally begins, and in a mood si-
milar to this it is carried on ; but the emotion, of whatever kind,
and in whatever degree, from various causes is qualified by va-
rious pleasures, so that in describing any passions whatsoever,
which are voluntarily described, the mind will upon the whole be
in a state of enjoyment. Now if Nature be thus cautious in pre-
serving in a state of enjoyment a being thus employed, the Poet
ought to profit by the lesson thus held forth to him, and ought
especially to take care, that whatever passions he communicates
to his Reader, those passions, if his Reader’s mind be sound and
vigorous, should always be accompanied with an overbalance of
pleasure. Now the music of harmonious Metrical language, the
sense of difficulty overcome, and the blind association of plea-
sure which has been previously received from works of Rhyme
or Metre of the same or similar construction, all these impercep-
tibly make up a complex feeling of delight, which is of the most
important use in tempering the painful feeling which will al-
ways be found intermingled with powerful descriptions of the
deeper passions. This effect is always produced in pathetic and
impassioned Poetry ; while in lighter compositions the ease and
gracefulness with which the Poet manages his numbers are them-
selves confessedly a principal source of the gratification of the
Reader. I might perhaps include all which it is necessary to say
upon this subject by affirming what few persons will deny, that
of two descriptions either of passions, manners or characters,
each of them equally well executed, the one in Prose and the
other in Verse, the Verse will be read a hundred times where the
Prose is read once. We see that Pope by the power of Verse
alone, has contrived to render the plainest common sense inte-
resting, and even frequently to invest it with the appearance of
passion. In consequence of these convictions I related in Metre
xviii
the Tale of goody blake and harry gill, which is one
of the rudest of this collection. I wished to draw attention to the
truth that the power of the human imagination is sufficient to
produce such changes even in our physical nature as might al-
most appear miraculous. The truth is an important one ; the
fact (for it is a fact) is a valuable illuſtration of it. And I
have the satisfaction of knowing that it has been communicated to
many hundreds of people who would never have heard of it,
had it not been narrated as a Ballad, and in a more impressive
Metre than is usual in Ballads.

Having thus adverted to a few of the reasons why I have
written in Verse, and why I have chosen subjects from common
life, and endeavoured to bring my language near to the real lan-
guage of men, if I have been too minute in pleading my own
cause, I have at the same time been treating a subject of gene-
ral interest : and it is for this reason that I request the Reader’s
permission to add a few words with reference solely to these
particular Poems, and to some defects which will probably be
found in them. I am sensible that my associations must have
sometimes been particular instead of general, and that, conse-
quently, giving to things a false importance, sometimes from
diseased impulses I may have written upon unworthy subjects;
but I am less apprehensive on this account, than that my lan-
guage may frequently have suffered from those arbitrary connec-
tions of feelings and ideas with particular words, from which no
man can altogether protect himself. Hence I have no doubt,
that in some instances, feelings even of the ludicrous may be
given to my Readers by expressions which appeared to me ten-
der and pathetic. Such faulty expressions, were I convinced
they were faulty at present, and that they muſt necessarily con-
tinue to be so, I would willingly take all reasonable pains to
correct. But it is dangerous to make these alterations on the
simple authority of a few individuals, or even of certain classes
of men ; for where the understanding of an Author is not con-
vinced, or his feelings altered, this cannot be done without
great injury to himself; for his own feelings are his stay and
support, and if he sets them aside in one instance he may be
induced to repeat this act till his mind loses all confidence in it-
xix
self and becomes utterly debilitated. To this it may be added,
that the Reader ought never to forget that he is himself exposed
to the same errors as the Poet, and perhaps in a much greater
degree ; for there can be no presumption in saying that it is not
probable he will be so well acquainted with the various stages of
meaning through which words have passed, or with the fickle-
ness or ſtability of the relations of particular ideas to each other
and above all, since he is so much less interested in the subject,
he may decide lightly and carelessly.

Long as I have detained my Reader, I hope he will permit
me to caution him against a mode of false criticism which has
been applied to Poetry in which the language closely resembles
that of life and nature. Such verses have been triumphed over
in Parodies of which Dr. Johnson’s Stanza is a fair specimen.

“ I put my hat upon my headAnd walk’d into the Strand,And there I met another manWhose hat was in his hand.”

Immediately under these lines I will place one of the most
juſtly admired stanzas of the “Babes in the Wood.”
“ These pretty Babes with hand in handWent wandering up and down ;But never more they saw the manApproaching from the Town.”

In both of these stanzas the words and the order of the words,
in no respect differ from the most unimpassioned conversation.
There are words in both, for example, “the Strand,” and the
Town,” connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet
the one stanza we admit as admirable, and the other as a fair
example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this
difference ? Not from the Metre, not from the language, not
from the order of the words ; but the matter expressed in Dr.
xx
Johnson’s stanza is contemptible. The proper method of treat-
ing trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson's stanza
would be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind
of Poetry, or this is not Poetry, but, this wants sense; it is nei-
ther intereſting in itself, nor can lead to any thing interesting ;
the images neither originate in that sane state of feeling which
arises out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the
Reader. This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such
verses : Why trouble yourself about the species till you have
previously decided upon the genus ? Why take pains to prove
that an Ape is not a Newton when it is self evident that he is
not a man.

I have one requeſt to make of my Reader, which is, that in
judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genu-
inely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be the judg-
ment of others. How common is it to hear a person say, “I
myself do not object to this style of composition, or this or that
expression, but to such and such classes of people it will appear
mean or ludicrous.” This mode of criticism, so destructive of
all sound unadulterated judgement, is almost universal : I have
therefore to request that the Reader would abide independently
by his own feelings, and that if he finds himself affected he
would not suffer such conjectures to interfere with his plea-
sure.

If an Author by any single composition has impressed us
with respect for his talents, it is useful to consider this as af-
fording a presumption, that, on other occasions where we have
been displeased, he nevertheless may not have written ill or ab-
surdly ; and, further, to give him so much credit for this one
composition, as may induce us to review what has displeased us
with more care than we should otherwise have bestowed upon it.
This is not only an act of justice, but in our decisions, upon Po-
etry especially, may conduce in a high degree to the improvement
of our own taste; for an accurate taste in Poetry and in all the other
arts as Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent,
which can only be produced by thought and a long continued
intercourse with the best models of composition. This is men-
tioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most
xxi
inexperienced Reader from judging for himself (I have already
said that I wish him to judge for himself) but merely to temper
the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if Poetry be a sub-
ject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment
may be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so.

I know that nothing would have so effectually contributed to
further the end which I have in view, as to have shewn of what
kind the pleasure is, and how the pleasure is produced which is
confessedly produced by Metrical composition essentially diffe-
rent from what I have here endeavoured to recommend ; for the
Reader will say that he has been pleased by such composition,
and what can I do more for him? The power of any art is limit-
ed and he will suspect, that if I propose to furnish him with
new friends it is only upon condition of his abandoning his old
friends. Besides as I have said, the Reader is himself conscious
of the pleasure which he has received from such composition,
composition to which he has peculiarly attached the endearing
name of Poetry; and all men feel an habitual gratitude, and
something of an honorable bigotry for the objects which have
long continued to please them : we not only wish to be pleased,
but to be pleased in that particular way in which we have been
accustomed to be pleased. There is a host of arguments in these
feelings; and I should be the less able to combat them success-
fully, as I am willing to allow, that, in order entirely to en-
joy the Poetry which I am recommending, it would be necessary
to give up much of what is ordinarily enjoyed. But would my
limits have permitted me to point out how this pleasure is
produced, I might have removed many obstacles, and assisted
my Reader in perceiving that the powers of language are not so
limited as he may suppose ; and that it is possible that Poetry may
give other enjoyments, of a purer, more lasting and more exqui-
ſite nature. But this part of my subject I have been obliged al-
together to omit ; as it has been less my present aim to prove
that the interest excited by some other kinds of Poetry is less vi-
vid, and less worthy of the nobler powers of the mind, than to
offer reasons for presuming, that, if the object which I have pro-
posed to myself were adequately attained, a species of Poetry
would be produced, which is genuine Poetry; in its nature
xxii
well adapted to interest mankind permanently, and likewise im-
portant in the multiplicity and quality of its moral relations.

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

1

LOVE.

1

ALL Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights, 1Whatever stirs this mortal frame,2All are but Ministers of Love,3 And feed his sacred flame.4

2

Oft in my waking dreams do I5Live o’er again that happy hour,6When midway on the Mount I lay7 Beside the Ruin’d Tower.8

3

The Moonshine stealing o’er the scene9Had blended with the Lights of Eve;10And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,11 My own dear Genevieve!12

4

She lean’d against the Armed Man,13The Statue of the Armed Knight:14She stood and listen’d to my harp15 Amid the ling’ring light.16

2
5

Few sorrows hath she of her own,17My Hope! my Joy! my Genevieve!18She loves me best, whene’er I sing19 The Songs, that make her grieve.20

6

I play’d a soft and doleful Air,21I sang an old and moving Story— 22An old rude Song that fitted well23 The Ruin wild and hoary.24

7

She listen’d with a flitting Blush25With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;26For well she knew, I could not choose27 But gaze upon her Face.28

8

I told her of the Knight, that wore29Upon his shield a burning brand;30And that for ten long years he woo’d31 The Lady of the Land.32

9

I told her how he pin’d: And, ah! 33The low, the deep, the pleading tone,34With which I sang another’s Love35 Interpreted my own.36

10

She listen’d with a flitting Blush,37With downcast Eyes and modest Grace;38And she forgave me, that I gaz’d39 Too fondly on her Face!40

3
11

But when I told the cruel scorn41Which craz’d this bold and lovely Knight,42And that he cross’d the mountain woods43 Nor rested day nor night;44

12

That sometimes from the savage den,45And sometimes from the darksome shade,46And sometimes starting up at once47 In green and sunny glade,48

13

There came, and look’d him in the face,49An Angel beautiful and bright;50And that he knew, it was a Fiend,51 This miserable Knight!52

14

And that, unknowing what he did,53He leapt amid a murd’rous band,54And sav’d from Outrage worse than death55 The Lady of the Land;56

15

And how she wept and clasp’d his knees57And how she tended him in vain—58And ever strove to expiate59 The Scorn that craz’d his brain;60

16

And that she nurs’d him in a cave;61And how his Madness went away62When, on the yellow forest leaves63 A dying man he lay;64

4
17

His dying words—but when I reach’d65That tenderest strain of all the ditty,66My falt’ring voice and pausing harp67 Disturb’d her soul with pity!68

18

All impulses of soul and sense69Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve,70The music, and the doleful tale,71 The rich and balmy Eve;72

19

And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope,73An undistinguishable throng!74And gentle wishes long subdued,75 Subdued and cherish’d long!76

20

She wept with pity and delight,77She blush’d with love and maiden shame;78And, like the murmur of a dream,79 I heard her breathe my name.80

21

Her bosom heav’d—she stepp’d aside;81As conscious of my look, she stepp’d—82Then suddenly with timorous eye83 She fled to me and wept.84

22

She half inclosed me with her arms,85She press’d me with a meek embrace;86And bending back her head look’d up,87 And gaz’d upon my face.88

5
23

’Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,89And partly ’twas a bashful Art90That I might rather feel than see91 The Swelling of her Heart.92

24

I calm’d her fears, and she was calm,93And told her Love with virgin pride.94And so I won my Genevieve,95 My bright and beauteous Bride!96

THE RIME

of the

ANCYENT MARINERE,

in seven parts.[nM]

1720
27
33

45

the

FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE,

a dramatic fragment.

Foster-Mother.I never saw the man whom you describe. 1

Maria.’Tis strange ! he spake of you familiarly 2As mine and Albert’s common Foster-mother. 3

Foster-Mother.Now blessings on the man, whoe’er he be, 4That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, 5As often as I think of those dear times 6When you two little ones would stand at eve 7On each side of my chair, and make me learn 8All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk 9In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you—10’Tis more like heaven to come than what has been. 11

46

Maria.O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me12Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon13Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,14Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye15She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!16

Foster-Mother.Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! 17

Maria.No one! 18

Foster-Mother. My husband’s father told it me, Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul! 19He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 21Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? 22Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 23He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined24With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 25As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,26And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. 2747
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 28A pretty boy, but most unteachable—29And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 30But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, 31And whistled, as he were a bird himself: 32And all the autumn ’twas his only play 33To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them 34With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 35A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 36A grey-haired man—he loved this little boy, 37The boy loved him—and, when the Friar taught him, 38He soon could write with the pen; and from that time, 39Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 40So he became a very learned youth. 41But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read, 42’Till his brain turned—and ere his twentieth year, 43He had unlawful thoughts of many things: 44And though he prayed, he never loved to pray 45With holy men, nor in a holy place;—46But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 47The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him: 4848
And once, as by the north side of the Chapel 49They stood together, chained in deep discourse, 50The earth heaved under them with such a groan, 51That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen 52Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened ; 53A fever seized him, and he made confession 54Of all the heretical and lawless talk 55Which brought this judgment: So the youth was seized 56And cast into that hole. My husband’s father 57Sobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart: 58And once as he was working in the cellar, 59He heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’s, 60Who sung a doleful song about green fields, 61How sweet it were on lake or wild Savannah62To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 63And wander up and down at liberty. 64He always doted on the youth, and now 65His love grew desperate; and defying death, 66He made that cunning entrance I described: 67And the young man escaped. 68

Maria. ’Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 69His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.— 70And what became of him? 71

49

Foster-Mother. He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discovery72Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother 73Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 74He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 75Soon after they arrived in that new world, 76In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 77And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight 78Up a great river, great as any sea, 79And ne’er was heard of more; but ’tis supposed, 80He lived and died among the savage men.81

51

L I N E S

left upon a seat in

A YEW-TREE

Which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite,

on a desolate part of the shore

YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

1

—Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 1Far from all human dwelling ; what if here 2No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; 3What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; 4Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves5That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 6By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 7

2

——————————Who he was 8That pil’d these stones, and with the mossy sod 9First cover’d o’er, and taught this aged Tree, 10Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, 11I well remember.—He was one who own’d 12No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d, 1352And big with lofty views, he to the world 14Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint 15Of dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate,16And scorn, against all enemies prepared, 17All but neglect; and so, his spirit damped 18At once, with rash disdain he turned away, 19And with the food of pride sustained his soul 20In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs 21Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, 22His only visitants a straggling sheep, 23The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; 24And on these barren rocks, with juniper, 25And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er, 26Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour 27A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here 28An emblem of his own unfruitful life: 29And lifting up his head, he then would gaze 30On the more distant scene; how lovely ’tis31Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became 32Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 33The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, 34Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, 35Warm from the labours of benevolence, 36The world, and man himself, appeared a scene 37Of kindred loveliness: Then he would sigh 38With mournful joy, to think that others felt 39What he must never feel; and so, lost man! 40On visionary views would fancy feed, 4153Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale 42He died, this seat his only monument. 43

3

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms 44Of young imagination have kept pure, 45Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that Pride,46Howe’er disguised in its own majesty, 47Is littleness; that he who feels contempt 48For any living thing, hath faculties 49Which he has never used; that Thought with him50Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye 51Is ever on himself, doth look on one, 52The least of Nature’s works, one who might move 53The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 54Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou! 55Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;56True dignity abides with him alone 57Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 58Can still suspect, and still revere himself, 59In lowliness of heart.60

55

THE NIGHTINGALE;

a conversational poem, written in april,

1798.

1

NO cloud, no relique of the sunken day 1Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 2Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. 3Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge! 4You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5But hear no murmuring ; it flows silently 6O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 7A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim, 8Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 9That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 10A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 11And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, 12“Most musical, most melancholy”* Bird! 13 * " Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage
in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that
of mere description : It is spoken in the character of
the melancholy Man, and has therefore has a dramatic
56A melancholy Bird? O idle thought! 14In Nature there is nothing melancholy.15—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d 16With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 17Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 18(And so, poor Wretch ! fill’d all things with himself 19And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20Of his own sorrows) he, and such as he, 21First nam’d these notes a melancholy strain ; 22And many a poet echoes the conceit ;23Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme 24When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs 25Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,26By sun or moonlight, to the influxes 27Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 28Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 29And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30Should share in Nature’s immortality, 31A venerable thing! and so his song 32Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 33propriety. The Author makes this remark, to res-
cue himself from the charge of having alluded with
levity to a line in Milton : A charge than which
none could be more painful to him, except perhaps
that of having ridiculed his Bible.57Be lov’d, like Nature!—But ’twill not be so; 34And youths and maidens most poetical 35Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring 36In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 37Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 38O’er Philomela’s pity-pleasing strains. 39My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister ! we have learnt 40A different lore; we may not thus profane 41Nature’s sweet voices always full of love 42And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale 43That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 44With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45As he were fearful, that an April night 46Would be too short for him to utter forth 47His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 48Of all its music! And I know a grove 49Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 51This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 52And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 53Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 54But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55So many Nightingales; and far and near 56In wood and thicket over the wide grove 57They answer and provoke each others songs— 58With skirmish and capricious passagings, 59And murmurs musical and swift jug, jug, 6058And one low piping sound more sweet than all—61Stirring the air with such an harmony, 62That should you close your eyes, you might almost 63Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, 64Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos’d65You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 66Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, 67Glist’ning, while many a glow-worm in the shade 68Lights up her love-torch. 69

2

A most gentle maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve 71(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate 72To something more than Nature in the grove) 73Glides thro’ the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 74That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space, 75What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 76Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon 77Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky 78With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds 79Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept 81An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d 8259Many a Nightingale perch giddily 83On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, 84And to that motion tune his wanton song, 85Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 86

3

Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 87And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! 88We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 89And now for our dear homes.—That strain again! 90Full fain would it delay me!—My dear Babe, 91Who, capable of no articulate sound, 92Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 93How he would place his hand beside his ear, 94His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95And bid us listen! And I deem it wise 96To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well 97The evening star; and once when he awoke 98In most distressful mood (some inward pain 99Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream) 100I hurried with him to our orchard plot, 101And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once 102Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 103While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears 10460Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well!—105It is a father’s tale: But if that Heaven 106Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 107Familiar with these songs, that with the night 108He may associate joy! Once more farewell109Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.110

61

the

FEMALE VAGRANT.

1

BY Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood,1(The Woman thus her artless story told) 2One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood 3Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.4Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll’d:5With thoughtless joy I stretch’d along the shore 6My father’s nets, or watched, when from the fold 7High o’er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, 8A dizzy depth below ! his boat and twinkling oar.9

2

My father was a good and pious man, 10An honest man, by honest parents bred, 11And I believe that, soon as I began 12To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, 13And in his hearing there my prayers I said; 14And afterwards, by my good father taught, 15I read, and loved the books in which I read;1662For books in every neighbouring house I sought,17And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.18

3

Can I forget what charms did once adorn 19My garden, stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,20And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn;21The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;22The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; 23My hen’s rich nest through long-grass scarce espied;24The cowslip-gathering at May’s dewy prime; 25The swans, that, when I sought the water-side26From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride?27

4

The staff I yet remember which upbore 28The bending body of my active Sire; 29His seat beneath the honeyed Sycamore 30When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;31When market morning came, the neat attire 32With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck’d;33My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire3463When stranger passed, so often I have check’d; 35The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck’d. 36

5

The suns of twenty summers danc’d along,—37Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:38Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, 39And cottage after cottage owned its sway; 40No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray 41Through pastures not his own, the master took; 42My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay,43He loved his old hereditary nook, 44And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.45

6

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

* Several of the Lakes in the North of England
are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked
out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.64
7

Can I forget that miserable hour, 55When from the last hill top, my Sire surveyed, 56Peering above the trees, the steeple tower, 57That on his marriage-day sweet music made? 58Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid59Close by my mother in their native bowers:60Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed,—61I could not pray:—Through tears that fell in showers,62Glimmer’d our dear lov’d home, alas! no longer ours!63

8

There was a youth whom I had loved so long64That when I loved him not I cannot say;65’Mid the green mountains many and many a song 66We two had sung, like little birds in May:67When we began to tire of childish play 68We seemed still more and more to prize each other;69We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 70And I in truth did love him like a brother, 71For never could I hope to meet with such another. 72

9

His father said, that to a distant town 73He must repair, to ply the artist’s trade. 74What tears of bitter grief till then unknown! 75What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!76To him we turned; we had no other aid. 7765Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, 78And her whom he had loved in joy, he said 79He well could love in grief; his faith he kept;80And in a quiet home once more my father slept. 81

10

Four years each day with daily bread was blest, 82By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. 83Three lovely infants lay upon my breast,84And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed85And knew not why. My happy father died 86When sad distress reduced the children’s meal:87Thrice happy ! that from him the grave did hide 88The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, 89And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.90

11

’Twas a hard change, an evil time was come; 91We had no hope, and no relief could gain. 92But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum 93Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain. 94My husband’s arms now only served to strain 95Me and his children, hungering in his view :96In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain,97To join those miserable men he flew ; 98And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.99

66
12

There foul neglect for months and months we bore,100Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. 101Green fields before us and our native shore;102By fever, from polluted air incurred, 103Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. 104Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,105’Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr’d106That happier days we never more must view: 107The parting signal streamed at last, the land withdrew.108

13

But from delay the summer calms were past. 109On as we drove, the equinoctial deep110Ran mountains-high before the howling blast:111We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep112Of them that perished in the whirlwind’s sweep,113Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, 114Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, 115That we the mercy of the waves should rue:116We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.117

14

Oh! dreadful price of Being to resign 118All that is dear in being! better far 119In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine, 120Unseen, unheard, unwatch’d by any star ; 121Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,122Better our dying bodies to obtrude, 123Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, 12467Protract a curs’d existence, with the brood 125That lap (their very nourishment !) their brother’s blood!126

15

The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,127Disease and famine, agony and fear, 128In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, 129It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. 130All perished?—all, in one remorseless year;131Husband and children! one by one, by sword 132And ravenous plague, all perished! every tear 133Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board 134A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. 135

16

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain 136By the first beams of dawning light impress’d, 137In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main:138The very ocean has its hour of rest, 139That comes not to the human mourner’s breast. 140Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, 141A heavenly silence did the waves invest; 142I looked and looked along the silent air, 143Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. 144

17

Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! 145And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke,146Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! 147The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!148The shriek that from the distant battle broke!14968The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host150Driven by the bombs incessant thunder-stroke151To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d,152Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!153

18

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,154When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,155While like a sea the storming army came, 156And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape,157And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape 158Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!159But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!160—For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,161And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.162

19

Some mighty gulph of separation past, 163I seemed transported to another world:—164A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast165The impatient mariner the sail unfurl’d, 166And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled 16769The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home, 168And from all hope I was forever hurled. 169For me!—farthest from earthly port to roam170Was best, could I but shun the spot where Man might come.171

20

And oft, robb’d of my perfect mind, I thought 172At last my feet a resting-place had found: 173Here will I weep in peace (so fancy wrought) 174Roaming the illimitable waters round; 175Here watch, of every human friend disowned, 176All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood— 177To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:178And homeless near a thousand homes I stood;179And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.180

21

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, 181Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock; 182Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, 183Nor dared my hand at any door to knock. 184I lay, where, with his drowsy mates, the cock 185From the cross timber of an out-house hung; 186How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock! 187At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, 188Nor to the beggar’s language could I frame my tongue.189

70
22

So passed another day, and so the third: 190Then did I try, in vain, the crowd’s resort:191In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirr’d, 192Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort: 193There, pains which nature could no more support194With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; 195Dizzy my brain, with interruption short196Of hideous sense, I sunk, nor step could crawl, 197And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.198

23

Recovery came with food: but still, my brain 199Was weak, nor of the past had memory. 200I heard my neighbours, in their beds complain 201Of many things which never troubled me; 202Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, 203Of looks where common kindness had no part,204Of service done with careless cruelty, 205Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 206And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start!207

24

These things just served to stir the torpid sense,208Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised!209Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence 210Dismissed, again in open day I gazed 211At houses, men, and common light, amazed;212The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, 213Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;21471The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,215And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired. 216

25

My heart is touched to think that men like these,217The rude earth’s tenants, were my first relief.218How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! 219And their long holiday that feared not grief;220For all belonged to all, and each was chief.221No plough their sinews strained; on grating road222No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf 223In every vale for their delight was stowed;224For them, in nature’s meads, the milky udder flowed.225

26

Semblance, with straw and pannier’d ass, they made226Of potters wandering on from door to door: 227But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, 228And other joys, my fancy to allure; 229The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor230In barn uplighted, and companions boon, 231Well met from far, with revelry secure, 232In depth of forest glade, when jocund June 233Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.234

72
27

But ill it suited me, in journey dark 235O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;236To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark,237Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch; 238The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, 239The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, 240And ear still busy on its nightly watch, 241Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill; 242Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.243

28

What could I do, unaided and unblest? 244Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:245And kindred of dead husband are at best 246Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, 247With little kindness would to me incline. 248Ill was I then for toil or service fit: 249With tears whose course no effort could confine, 250By high-way side, forgetful, would I sit 251Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.252

29

I lived upon the mercy of the fields, 253And oft of cruelty the sky accused; 254On hazard, or what general bounty yields, 255Now coldly given, now utterly refused. 256The fields I for my bed have often used: 257But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth 258Is, that I have my inner self abused, 25973Foregone the home delight of constant truth,260And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.261

30

Three years a wanderer, often have I view’d,262In tears, the sun towards that country tend 263Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: 264And now across this moor my steps I bend—265Oh! tell me whither—for no earthly friend 266Have I.——She ceased, and weeping turn’d away ;267As if because her tale was at an end 268She wept;—because she had no more to say 269Of that perpetual weight which on her spirits lay.270

75

GOODY BLAKE, and HARRY GILL,

A True Story.

1

OH! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? 1What is’t that ails young Harry Gill? 2That evermore his teeth they chatter, 3Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 4Of waiscoats Harry has no lack, 5Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; 6He has a blanket on his back, 7And coats enough to smother nine. 8In March, December, and in July, 9’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 10The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, 11His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 12At night, at morning, and at noon, 13’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; 14Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, 15His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 16

2

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 17And who so stout of limb as he? 18His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 19His voice was like the voice of three. 2076Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 21Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; 22And any man who pass’d her door, 23Might see how poor a hut she had. 24All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 25And then her three hours work at night! 26Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling, 27It would not pay for candle-light. 28—This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, 29Her hut was on a cold hill-side, 30And in that country coals are dear, 31For they come far by wind and tide. 32

3

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 33Two poor old dames, as I have known, 34Will often live in one small cottage, 35But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 36’Twas well enough when summer came, 37The long, warm, lightsome summer-day;38Then at her door the canty dame 39Would sit, as any linnet gay. 40But when the ice our streams did fetter, 41Oh! then how her old bones would shake! 42You would have said, if you had met her, 43’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 44Her evenings then were dull and dead; 45Sad case it was, as you may think, 46For very cold to go to bed, 47And then for cold not sleep a wink. 48

77
4

Oh joy for her! when e’er in winter 49The winds at night had made a rout, 50And scatter’d many a lusty splinter, 51And many a rotten bough about. 52Yet never had she, well or sick, 53As every man who knew her says, 54A pile before-hand, wood or stick, 55Enough to warm her for three days. 56Now, when the frost was past enduring, 57And made her poor old bones to ache, 58Could any thing be more alluring, 59Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60And now and then, it must be said, 61When her old bones were cold and chill, 62She left her fire, or left her bed, 63To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 64

5

Now Harry he had long suspected 65This trespass of old Goody Blake, 66And vow’d that she should be detected, 67And he on her would vengeance take. 68And oft from his warm fire he’d go, 69And to the fields his road would take, 70And there, at night, in frost and snow, 71He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.7278And once, behind a rick of barley, 73Thus looking out did Harry stand,74The moon was full and shining clearly, 75And crisp with frost the stubble land.76—He hears a noise—he’s all awake— 77Again?—on tip-toe down the hill 78He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake, 79She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill. 80

6

Right glad was he when he beheld her: 81Stick after stick did Goody pull, 82He stood behind a bush of elder, 83Till she had filled her apron full. 84When with her load she turned about, 85The bye road back again to take, 86He started forward with a shout, 87And sprang upon poor Goody Blake:88And fiercely by the arms he took her, 89And by the arm he held her fast, 90And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 91And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!” 92Then Goody, who had nothing said, 93Her bundle from her lap let fall; 94And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d 95To God that is the judge of all. 96

7

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing, 97While Harry held her by the arm—98“God! who art never out of hearing, 99“O may he never more be warm!” 10079The cold, cold moon above her head, 101Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 102Young Harry heard what she had said, 103And icy-cold he turned away. 104He went complaining all the morrow 105That he was cold and very chill: 106His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, 107Alas! that day for Harry Gill! 108That day he wore a riding-coat, 109But not a whit the warmer he: 110Another was on Thursday brought, 111And ere the Sabbath he had three. 112

8

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 113And blankets were about him pinn’d; 114Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115Like a loose casement in the wind. 116And Harry’s flesh it fell away ; 117And all who see him say ’tis plain, 118That, live as long as live he may, 119He never will be warm again. 120No word to any man he utters, 121A-bed or up, to young or old; 122But ever to himself he mutters, 123“Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” 124A-bed or up, by night or day ; 125His teeth they chatter, chatter still: 126Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 127Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.128

80

82

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

with an incident in which he was
concerned.

1

IN the sweet shire of Cardigan, 1Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 2An old man dwells, a little man, 3I’ve heard he once was tall. 4Of years he has upon his back, 5No doubt, a burthen weighty ; 6He says he is three score and ten, 7But others say he’s eighty. 8A long blue livery-coat has he, 9That’s fair behind, and fair before; 10Yet, meet him where you will, you see 11At once that he is poor. 12Full five and twenty years he lived 13A running huntsman merry ; 14And, though he has but one eye left, 15His cheek is like a cherry. 16

83
2

No man like him the horn could sound, 17And no man was so full of glee ; 18To say the least, four counties round 19Had heard of Simon Lee ; 20His master’s dead, and no one now 21Dwells in the hall of Ivor; 22Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 23He is the sole survivor. 24His hunting feats have him bereft 25Of his right eye, as you may see: 26And then, what limbs those feats have left 27To poor old Simon Lee! 28He has no son, he has no child, 29His wife an aged woman, 30Lives with him near the water-fall, 31Upon the village common. 32

3

And he is lean and he is sick, 33His little body’s half awry,34His ancles they are swoln and thick; 35His legs are thin and dry. 36When he was young he little knew 37Of husbandry or tillage ;38And now he’s forced to work, though weak,39—The weakest in the village. 40He all the country could outrun, 41Could leave both man and horse behind; 42And often, ere the race was done, 43He reeled and was stone-blind. 4484And still there’s something in the world 45At which his heart rejoices ; 46For when the chiming hounds are out, 47He dearly loves their voices ! 48

4

Old Ruth works out of doors with him, 49And does what Simon cannot do; 50For she, not over stout of limb, 51Is stouter of the two. 52And though you with your utmost skill 53From labour could not wean them, 54Alas! ’tis very little, all 55Which they can do between them. 56Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 57Not twenty paces from the door, 58A scrap of land they have, but they 59Are poorest of the poor. 60This scrap of land he from the heath 61Enclosed when he was stronger ; 62But what avails the land to them, 63Which they can till no longer? 64

5

Few months of life has he in store, 65As he to you will tell,66For still, the more he works, the more67His poor old ancles swell.6885My gentle reader, I perceive 69How patiently you’ve waited, 70And I’m afraid that you expect 71Some tale will be related. 72O reader ! had you in your mind 73Such stores as silent thought can bring, 74O gentle reader ! you would find 75A tale in every thing. 76What more I have to say is short, 77I hope you’ll kindly take it; 78It is no tale, but should you think, 79Perhaps a tale you’ll make it. 80

6

One summer-day I chanced to see 81This old man doing all he could 82About the root of an old tree, 83A stump of rotten wood. 84The mattock totter’d in his hand ; 85So vain was his endeavour 86That at the root of the old tree 87He might have work’d for ever. 88“You’re overtask’d, good Simon Lee,89Give me your tool?” to him I said; 90And at the word right gladly he 91Received my proffered aid. 92I struck, and with a single blow 93The tangled root I sever’d, 94At which the poor old man so long 95And vainly had endeavour’d. 96

86
7

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

87

90

93

LINES

written in early spring.

1

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

2

To her fair works did Nature link5The human soul that through me ran;6And much it grieved my heart to think7What Man has made of Man.8

3

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower9The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;10And ’tis my faith that every flower11Enjoys the air it breathes.12

4

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d:13Their thoughts I cannot measure,14But the least motion which they made15It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.16

94
5

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

6

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

95

the

THORN.[nT]

1

THERE is a Thorn ; it looks so old,1In truth you’d find it hard to say,2How it could ever have been young,3It looks so old and grey.4Not higher than a two-years’ child,5It stands erect this aged Thorn;6No leaves it has, no thorny points;7It is a mass of knotted joints,8A wretched thing forlorn.9It stands erect, and like a stone10With lichens it is overgrown.11

2

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown12With lichens to the very top,13And hung with heavy tufts of moss,14A melancholy crop :1578Up from the earth these mosses creep,16And this poor Thorn they clasp it round17So close, you’d say that they were bent18With plain and manifest intent,19To drag it to the ground;20And all had joined in one endeavour21To bury this poor Thorn for ever.22

3

High on a mountain’s highest ridge,23Where oft the stormy winter gale24Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds25It sweeps from vale to vale;26Not five yards from the mountain path27This Thorn you on your left espy ;28And to the left, three yards beyond,29You see a little muddy pond30Of water, never dry ;31I’ve measured it from side to side:32’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.33

4

And close beside this aged Thorn,34There is a fresh and lovely sight,35A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,36Just half a foot in height.3797All lovely colours there you see,38All colours that were ever seen;39And mossy net-work too is there,40As if by hand of lady fair41The work had woven been,42And cups, the darlings of the eye,43So deep is their vermillion dye.44

5

Ah me ! what lovely tints are there45Of olive-green and scarlet bright!46In spikes, in branches, and in stars,47Green, red, and pearly white.48This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,49Which close beside the Thorn you see,50So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,51Is like an infant’s grave in size,52As like as like can be:53But never, never any where,54An infants grave was half so fair.55

6

Now would you see this aged Thorn,56This pond and beauteous hill of moss,57You must take care and chuse your time58The mountain when to cross.5998For oft there sits, between the heap60That’s like an infant’s grave in size,61And that same pond of which I spoke,62A woman in a scarlet cloak,63And to herself she cries,64 “ Oh misery! oh misery!65 “ Oh woe is me! oh misery!”66

7

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

8

“Now wherefore thus, by day and night,78“In rain, in tempest, and in snow,79“Thus to the dreary mountain-top80“Does this poor woman go?8199“And why sits she beside the Thorn82“When the blue day-light’s in the sky,83“Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,84“Or frosty air is keen and still,85“And wherefore does she cry?—86“Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why87“Does she repeat that doleful cry?”88

9

I cannot tell; I wish I could;89For the true reason no one knows,90But if you’d gladly view the spot,91The spot to which she goes;92The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,93The pond—and Thorn—so old and grey,94Pass by her door—tis seldom shut—95And if you see her in her hut,96Then to the spot away!—97I never heard of such as dare98Approach the spot when she is there.99

10

“But wherefore to the mountain-top100“Can this unhappy woman go,101“Whatever star is in the skies,102“Whatever wind may blow?”103100Nay rack your brain—’tis all in vain ;104I’ll tell you every thing I know ;105But to the Thorn, and to the pond106Which is a little step beyond,107I wish that you would go:108Perhaps when you are at the place109You something of her tale may trace.110

11

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

12

And they had fix’d the wedding-day,122The morning that must wed them both ;123But Stephen to another maid124Had sworn another oath ;125101And with this other maid to church126Unthinking Stephen went—127Poor Martha! on that woeful day128A cruel, cruel fire, they say,129Into her bones was sent:130It dried her body like a cinder,131And almost turn’d her brain to tinder.132

13

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

14

Sad case for such a brain to hold144Communion with a stirring child!145Sad case, as you may think, for one146Who had a brain so wild !147102Last Christmas when we talked of this,148Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,149That in her womb the infant wrought150About its mother’s heart, and brought151Her senses back again:152And when at last her time drew near,153Her looks were calm, her senses clear.154

15

No more I know, I wish I did,155And I would tell it all to you ;156For what became of this poor child157There’s none that ever knew:158And if a child was born or no,159There’s no one that could ever tell160And if ’twas born alive or dead,161There’s no one knows, as I have said,162But some remember well,163That Martha Ray about this time164Would up the mountain often climb.165

16

And all that winter, when at night166The wind blew from the mountain-peak,167’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,168The church-yard path to seek:169103For many a time and oft were heard170Cries coming from the mountain-head,171Some plainly living voices were,172And others, I’ve heard many swear,173Were voices of the dead:174I cannot think, whate’er they say,175They had to do with Martha Ray.176

17

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

18

’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,188No screen, no fence could I discover,189And then the wind! in faith, it was190A wind full ten times over!191104I looked around, I thought I saw192A jutting crag, and off I ran,193Head-foremost, through the driving rain,194The shelter of the crag to gain,195And, as I am a man,196Instead of jutting crag, I found197A woman seated on the ground.198

19

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

20

“But what’s the Thorn? and what’s the pond?210“And what’s the hill of moss to her?211“And what’s the creeping breeze that comes212“The little pond to stir?”213105I cannot tell; but some will say214She hanged her baby on the tree,215Some say she drowned it in the pond,216Which is a little step beyond,217But all and each agree,218The little babe was buried there,219Beneath that hill of moss so fair.220

21

I’ve heard the scarlet moss is red221With drops of that poor infant’s blood;222But kill a new-born infant thus!223I do not think she could.224Some say, if to the pond you go,225And fix on it a steady view,226The shadow of a babe you trace,227A baby and a baby’s face,228And that it looks at you;229Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain230The baby looks at you again.231

22

And some had sworn an oath that she232Should be to public justice brought;233And for the little infant’s bones234With spades they would have sought :235106But then the beauteous hill of moss236Before their eyes began to stir;237And for full fifty yards around;238The grass it shook upon the ground;239But all do still aver240The little babe is buried there,241Beneath that hill of moss so fair.242

23

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

107

the

LAST OF THE FLOCK.

1

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

2

He saw me, and he turn’d aside, 11As if he wish’d himself to hide.12Then with his coat he made essay 13To wipe those briny tears away.14108I follow’d him, and said, “ My friend 15“ What ails you? wherefore weep you so?”16—Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb, 17He makes my tears to flow. 18To-day I fetched him from the rock; 19He is the last of all my flock:—20

3

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

4

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

109
5

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

6

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

7

Another still ! and still another! 61A little lamb, and then its mother! 62It was a vein that never stopp’d,63Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d:64110Till thirty were not left alive 65They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, 66And I may say that many a time 67I wished they all were gone: 68They dwindled one by one away; 69For me it was a woeful day. 70

8

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

9

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

111
10

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