THE RIME

of the

ANCYENT MARINERE,

in seven parts.

1121

26

35

44

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 954

In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you—10’Tis more like heaven to come than what has been. 11

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-MOTHERMy 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 2355

He 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. 27And 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, 4356

He 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. 48And 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 savannah, 62To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 6357

And 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

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 7858

Up 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

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 waves,5That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind 6By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 7

2

—————————Who he was 8That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod 960First covered 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, 13And 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: 2961And 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, 41Till 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 4862For 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

L E W T I ;

or,

THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE CHANT.

At midnight, by the stream I rov’d 1To forget the form I lov’d. 2Image of Lewti ! from my mind 3Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 4The moon was high, the moonlight gleam, 5 And the shadow of a star 6Heav’d upon Tamaha’s stream ; 7 But the rock shone brighter far. 8The rock half-sheltered from my view, 9By pendant boughs of tressy yew.— 10So shines my Lewti’s forehead fair, 11Gleaning thro’ her sable hair.12

64

Image of Lewti ! from my mind 13Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 14I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15 Onward to the moon it pass’d. 16Still brighter and more bright it grew, 17With floating colours not a few, 18 Till it reach’d the moon at last. 19Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20With a rich and amber light ; 21And so with many a hope I seek, 22 And with such joy I find my Lewti ;23And even so my pale wan cheek 24 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 25Nay, treach’rous image ! leave my mind, 26If Lewti never will be kind. 27The little cloud—it floats away, 28 Away it goes—away so soon! 29Alas ! it has no pow’r to stay : 30Its hues are dim, its hues are grey—31 Away it passes from the moon. 32

65

How mournfully it seems to fly, 33 Ever fading more and more, 34To joyless regions of the sky— 35 And now ’tis whiter than before, 36As white as my poor cheek will be, 37 When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, 38A dying man, for love of thee. 39Nay, treach’rous image! leave my mind—40And yet thou didst not look unkind! 41 I saw a vapour in the sky, 42 Thin and white and very high. 43I ne’er beheld so thin a cloud— 44 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45 Now below, and now above, 46Have snatch’d aloft the lawny shroud 47 Of lady fair, that died for love : 48 For Maids, as well as Youths, have perish’d49 From fruitless love, too fondly cherish’d ! 50 Nay, treach’rous image ! leave my mind— 51 For Lewti never will be kind.52

66

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 53 Slip the crumbling banks for ever; 54Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55 They plunge into the gentle river : 56The river-swans have heard my tread, 57And startle from their reedy bed. 58O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure59 Your movements to some heav’nly tune! 60O beauteous birds ! ’tis such a pleasure61 To see you move beneath the moon ; 62I would, it were your true delight 63To sleep by day and wake all night. 64I know the place where Lewti lies, 65When silent night has clos’d her eyes— 66It is a breezy jasmin bow’r, 67 The Nightingale sings o’er her head; 68Had I the enviable pow’r 69 To creep unseen with noiseless tread, 70Then should I view her bosom white, 71Heaving lovely to the sight, 72

67

As those two swans together heave 73On the gently swelling wave. 74O that she saw me in a dream, 75 And dreamt that I had died for care! 76All pale and wasted I would seem, 77 Yet fair withal, as spirits are. 78I’d die indeed, if I might see 79Her bosom heave, and heave for me! 80Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind! 81To-morrow Lewti may be kind.82

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 flood3Supplied, 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 shore6My 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

70

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; 16For 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 pease, 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-side, 26From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. 27

71

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 ire, 34When 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 danced 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

72

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

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 laid,59Close 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-loved home, alas! no longer ours!63

* Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fiſher-
men, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.73

8

There was a youth whom I had loved so long,64That when I loved him not I cannot say. 65’Mid the green mountains many and many a song66We 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.77Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, 78And her whom he had loved in joy, he said79He well could love in grief: his faith he kept ;80And in a quiet house once more my father slept.81

74

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 sighed,85And knew not why. My happy father died 86When sad distress reduced the children’s meal :87Thrice happy ! that from him the grave did hide88The 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 drum93Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.94My husband’s arms now only served to strain95Me 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

75

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’d,106That 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 deep 110Ran 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

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14

Oh! dreadful price of being to resign 118All that is dear in being! better far119In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine,120Unseen, unheard, unwatched 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,124Protract a curst existence, with the brood125That 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 sword132And ravenous plague, all perished : every tear133Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board134A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.135

77

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 !149The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host150Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunder-stroke151To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d,152Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost !153

78

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 Rape158Seized 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 curled167The 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

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20

And oft, robb’d of my perfect mind, I thought172At 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 cock185From 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

80

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 support,194With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall ;195Dizzy my brain, with interruptions short 196Of 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 brain199Was weak, nor of the past had memory.200I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain201Of 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

81

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 thence210Dismissed, again on 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 ;214The 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 sheaf223In every vale for their delight was stowed :224For them, in nature’s meads, the milky udder flowed.225

82

26

Semblance, with straw and panniered 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 June233Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.234

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

83

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 ruth258Is, that I have my inner self abused, 259Foregone the home delight of constant truth,260And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.261

84

30

Three years a wanderer, often have I view’d,262In tears, the sun towards that country tend263Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : 264And now across this moor my steps I bend—265Oh ! tell me whither——for no earthly friend266Have I.——She ceased, and weeping turned away,267As if because her tale was at an end 268She wept;—because she had no more to say269Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.270

GOODY BLAKE,

and

HARRY GILL,

A TRUE STORY.

1

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?1What is’t that ails young Harry Gill? 2That evermore his teeth they chatter, 3Chatter, chatter, chatter still. 4Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, 5Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; 6He has a blanket on his back, 7And coats enough to smother nine. 8

86

2

In 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

3

Young Harry was a lusty drover, 17And who so stout of limb as he? 18His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, 19His voice was like the voice of three. 20Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, 21Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; 22And any man who pass’d her door, 23Might see how poor a hut she had. 24

87

4

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, 25And then her three hours’ work at night! 26Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling, 27It would not pay for candle-light. 28—This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, 29Her hut was on a cold hill-side, 30And in that country coals are dear, 31For they come far by wind and tide. 32

5

By the same fire to boil their pottage, 33Two poor old dames, as I have known, 34Will often live in one small cottage, 35But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. 36’Twas well enough when summer came, 37The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, 38Then at her door the canty dame39Would sit, as any linnet gay.40

88

6

But when the ice our streams did fetter, 41Oh! then how her old bones would shake! 42You would have said, if you had met her, 43’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. 44Her evenings then were dull and dead; 45Sad case it was, as you may think, 46For very cold to go to bed, 47And then for cold not sleep a wink. 48

7

Oh joy for her! 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. 56

89

8

Now, when the frost was past enduring, 57And made her poor old bones to ache, 58Could any thing be more alluring, 59Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? 60And now and then, it must be said, 61When her old bones were cold and chill, 62She left her fire, or left her bed, 63To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. 64

9

Now Harry he had long suspected 65This trespass of old Goody Blake, 66And vow’d that she should be detected, 67And he on her would vengeance take. 68And oft from his warm fire he’d go, 69And to the fields his road would take, 70And there, at night, in frost and snow, 71He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake. 72

90

10

And once, behind a rick of barley, 73Thus looking out did Harry stand; 74The moon was full and shining clearly, 75And crisp with frost the stubble-land.76—He hears a noise—he’s all awake— 77Again?—on tip-toe down the hill 78He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake, 79She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill. 80

11

Right glad was he when he beheld her: 81Stick after stick did Goody pull, 82He stood behind a bush of elder, 83Till she had filled her apron full. 84When with her load she turned about, 85The bye-road back again to take, 86He started forward with a shout, 87And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. 88

91

12

And fiercely by the arm he took her, 89And by the arm he held her fast, 90And fiercely by the arm he shook her, 91And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!” 92Then Goody, who had nothing said, 93Her bundle from her lap let fall; 94And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d 95To God that is the judge of all. 96

13

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing, 97While Harry held her by the arm— 98“God! who art never out of hearing, 99“O may he never more be warm!” 100The cold, cold moon above her head, 101Thus on her knees did Goody pray, 102Young Harry heard what she had said, 103And icy-cold he turned away. 104

92

14

He 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

15

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter, 113And blankets were about him pinn’d; 114Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115Like a loose casement in the wind. 116And Harry’s flesh it fell away; 117And all who see him say ’tis plain, 118That, live as long as live he may, 119He never will be warm again. 120

93

16

No word to any man he utters, 121A-bed or up, to young or old; 122But ever to himself he mutters, 123“Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” 124A-bed or up, by night or day; 125His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 126Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, 127Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.128

L I N E S

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

1

It is the first mild day of March: 1Each minute sweeter than before, 2The red-breast sings from the tall larch 3That stands beside our door.4

2

There is a blessing in the air,5Which seems a sense of joy to yield 6To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 7And grass in the green field.8

96

3

My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine) 9Now that our morning meal is done, 10Make haste, your morning task resign; 11Come forth and feel the sun.12

4

Edward will come with you, and pray, 13Put on with speed your woodland dress, 14And bring no book, for this one day 15We’ll give to idleness.16

5

No joyless forms shall regulate 17Our living Calendar:18We from to-day, my friend, will date 19The opening of the year. 20

6

Love, now an universal birth, 21From heart to heart is stealing, 22From earth to man, from man to earth, 23—It is the hour of feeling. 24

97

7

One moment now may give us more 25Than fifty years of reason; 26Our minds shall drink at every pore 27The spirit of the season. 28

8

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

9

And from the blessed power that rolls 33About, below, above; 34We’ll frame the measure of our souls, 35They shall be tuned to love. 36

10

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

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

with an incident in which he was
concerned.

1

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 1Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 2An old man dwells, a little man, 3I’ve heard he once was tall. 4Of years he has upon his back, 5No doubt, a burthen weighty; 6He says he is three score and ten, 7But others say he’s eighty. 8

99

2

A long blue livery-coat has he, 9That’s fair behind, and fair before; 10Yet, meet him where you will, you see 11At once that he is poor. 12Full five and twenty years he lived 13A running huntsman merry; 14And, though he has but one eye left, 15His cheek is like a cherry. 16

3

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

100

4

His hunting feats have him bereft 25Of his right eye, as you may see: 26And then, what limbs those feats have left27To poor old Simon Lee! 28He has no son, he has no child, 29His wife, an aged woman, 30Lives with him, near the waterfall, 31Upon the village common. 32

5

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. 40

101

6

He 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. 44And 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

7

Old Ruth works out of doors with him, 49And does what Simon cannot do; 50For she, not over stout of limb, 51Is stouter of the two. 52And though you with your utmost skill 53From labour could not wean them, 54Alas! ’tis very little, all 55Which they can do between them. 56

102

8

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 57Not twenty paces from the door, 58A scrap of land they have, but they 59Are poorest of the poor. 60This scrap of land he from the heath 61Enclosed when he was stronger; 62But what avails the land to them, 63Which they can till no longer? 64

9

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

103

9

O reader! had you in your mind 73Such stores as silent thought can bring, 74O gentle reader! you would find 75A tale in every thing.76What more I have to say is short, 77I hope you’ll kindly take it; 78It is no tale; but should you think, 79Perhaps a tale you’ll make it. 80

10

One summer-day I chanced to see 81This old man doing all he could 82About the root of an old tree, 83A stump of rotten wood. 84The mattock totter’d in his hand; 85So vain was his endeavour 86That at the root of the old tree 87He might have worked for ever. 88

104

9

“You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,89Give me your tool” to him I said; 90And at the word right gladly he 91Received my proffer’d aid. 92I struck, and with a single blow 93The tangled root I sever’d, 94At which the poor old man so long 95And vainly had endeavour’d. 96

12

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

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS,

shewing how the art of lying may be

taught.

1

I have a boy of five years old,1His face is fair and fresh to see ; 2His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould, 3And dearly he loves me. 4

2

One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk, 5Our quiet house all full in view, 6And held such intermitted talk 7As we are wont to do. 8

106

3

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

4

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

5

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

6

The young lambs ran a pretty race ; 21The morning sun shone bright and warm; 22“Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place, 23“And so is Liswyn farm.24

107

7

“My little boy, which like you more,” 25I said and took him by the arm—26“Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore, 27“Or here at Liswyn farm?”28

8

“And tell me, had you rather be,” 29I said and held him by the arm, 30“At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,31“Or here at Liswyn farm ?32

9

In careless mood he looked at me, 33While still I held him by the arm, 34And said, “ At Kilve I’d rather be 35“Than here at Liswyn farm.”36

10

“Now, little Edward, say why so ; 37My little Edward, tell me why ;” 38“I cannot tell, I do not know.” 39“Why this is strange,” said I. 40

108

11

“For, here are woods and green-hills warm;41“There surely muſt some reason be 42“Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm43“For Kilve by the green sea.” 44

12

At this, my boy, so fair and slim, 45Hung down his head, nor made reply ; 46And five times did I say to him, 47“Why ? Edward, tell me why?” 48

13

His head he raised—there was in sight,49It caught his eye, he saw it plain—50Upon the house-top, glittering bright,51A broad and gilded vane.52

14

Then did the boy his tongue unlock, 53And thus to me he made reply; 54“At Kilve there was no weather-cock, 55“And that’s the reason why.” 56

109

15

Oh deareſt, dearest boy! my heart 57For better lore would seldom yearn, 58Could I but teach the hundredth part 59Of what from thee I learn.60

L I N E S

written in early spring.

1

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

2

To her fair works did nature link 5The human soul that through me ran; 6And much it griev’d my heart to think 7What man has made of man. 8

116

3

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,9The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes; 10And ’tis my faith that every flower 11Enjoys the air it breathes. 12

4

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d: 13Their thoughts I cannot measure, 14But the least motion which they made, 15It seem’d a thrill of pleasure. 16

5

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

6

If I these thoughts may not prevent, 21If such be of my creed the plan, 22Have I not reason to lament 23What man has made of man?24

the

T H O R N.

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

118

2

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown12With lichens to the very top,13And hung with heavy tufts of moss,14A melancholy crop:15Up from the earth these mosses creep,16And this poor thorn they clasp it round17So close, you’d say that they were bent18With plain and manifest intent,19To drag it to the ground;20And all had 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-path,27119This thorn you on your left espy;28And to the left, three yards beyond,29You see a little muddy pond30Of water, never dry;31I’ve measured it from side to side:32’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.33

4

And close beside this aged thorn,34There is a fresh and lovely sight,35A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,36Just half a foot in height.37All lovely colours there you see,38All colours that were ever seen,39And mossy network too is there,40As if by hand of lady fair41The work had woven been,42And cups, the darlings of the eye,43So deep is their vermilion dye.44

120

5

Ah me! what lovely tints are there!45Of olive-green and scarlet bright,46In spikes, in branches, and in stars,47Green, red, and pearly white.48This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,49Which close beside the thorn you see,50So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,51Is like an infant’s grave in size52As like as like can be:53But never, never any where,54An infant’s grave was half so fair.55

6

Now would you see this aged thorn,56This pond and beauteous hill of moss,57You must take care and choose your time58The mountain when to cross.59For oft there sits, between the heap60121That’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

122

8

“Now wherefore thus, by day and night,78“In rain, in tempest, and in snow,79“Thus to the dreary mountain-top80“Does this poor woman go?81“And why sits she beside the thorn82“When the blue day-light’s in the sky,83“Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,84“Or frosty air is keen and still,85“And wherefore does she cry?—86“Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why87“Does she repeat that doleful cry?”88

9

I cannot tell; I wish I could;89For the true reason no one knows,90But if you’d gladly view the spot,91The spot to which she goes;92The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,93123The 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?”103Nay rack your brain—’tis all in vain,104I’ll tell you every thing I know;105But to the thorn, and to the pond106Which is a little step beyond,107I wish that you would go:108Perhaps when you are at the place109You something of her tale may trace.110

124

11

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

12

And they had fix’d the wedding-day,122The morning that must wed them both;123But Stephen to another maid124Had sworn another oath;125And with this other maid to church126125Unthinking Stephen went—127Poor Martha! on that woful day128A cruel, cruel fire, they say,129Into her bones was sent:130It dried her body like a cinder,131And almost 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

126

14

Sad case for such a brain to hold144Communion with a stirring child!145Sad case, as you may think, for one146Who had a brain so wild!147Last Christmas when we talked of this,148Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,149That in her womb the infant wrought150About its mother’s heart, and brought151Her senses back again:152And when at last her time drew near,153Her looks were calm, her senses clear.154

15

No more I know, I wish I did,155And I would tell it all to you;156For what became of this poor child157There’s none that ever knew:158And if a child was born or no,159127There’s no one that could ever tell;160And if ’twas born alive or dead,161There’s no one knows, as I have said,162But some remember well,163That Martha Ray about this time164Would up the mountain often climb.165

16

And all that winter, when at night166The wind blew from the mountain-peak,167’Twas worth your while, though in the dark,168The church-yard path to seek:169For many a time and oft were heard170Cries coming from the mountain-head,171Some plainly living voices were,172And others, I’ve heard many swear,173Were voices of the dead:174I cannot think, whate’er they say,175They had to do with Martha Ray.176

128

17

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

18

’Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,188No screen, no fence could I discover,189And then the wind! in faith, it was190A wind full ten times over.191I looked around, I thought I saw192129A 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

130

20

“But what’s the thorn? and what’s the pond?210“And what’s the hill of moss to her?211“And what’s the creeping breeze that comes212“The little pond to stir?”213I cannot tell; but some will say214She hanged her baby on the tree,215Some say she drowned it in the pond,216Which is a little step beyond,217But all and each agree,218The little babe was buried there,219Beneath that hill of moss so fair.220

21

I’ve heard the 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,225131And fix on it a steady view,226The shadow of a babe you trace,227A baby and a baby’s face,228And that it looks at you;229Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain230The baby looks at you again.231

22

And some had sworn an oath that she232Should be to public justice brought;233And for the little infant’s bones234With spades they would have sought.235But then the beauteous hill of moss236Before their eyes began to stir;237And for full fifty yards around,238The grass it shook upon the ground;239But all do still aver240The little babe is buried there,241Beneath that hill of moss so fair.242

132

23

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

133

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

134

2

He saw me, and he turned aside, 11As if he wished himself to hide: 12Then with his coat he made essay 13To wipe those briny tears away. 14I 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

135

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

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; 45My sheep upon the mountain fed, 46And it was fit that thence I took 47Whereof to buy us bread:” 48“Do this; how can we give to you,” 49They cried, “what to the poor is due?” 50

136

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.64Till 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

137

8

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

9

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

138

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

139

THE DUNGEON.

1

And this place our forefathers made for man!1This is the process of our love and wisdom,2To each poor brother who offends against us—3Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?4Is this the only cure? Merciful God! 5Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up6By ignorance and parching poverty, 7His energies roll back upon his heart, 8And stagnate and corrupt ; till changed to poison,9They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot ;10Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks—11And this is their best cure! uncomforted 12

140

1

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,13And savage faces, at the clanking hour,14Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,15By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies 16Circled with evil, till his very soul 17Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed18By sights of ever more deformity ! 19

2

With other ministrations thou, O nature ! 20Healest thy wandering and distempered child :21Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 22Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,23Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,24Till he relent, and can no more endure 25To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, 26Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 27But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,28His angry spirit healed and harmonized 29By the benignant touch of love and beauty.30

141

the

MAD MOTHER.

1

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, 1The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, 2Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, 3And she came far from over the main. 4She has a baby on her arm, 5Or else she were alone ; 6And underneath the hay-stack warm, 7And on the green-wood stone, 8She talked and sung the woods among ; 9And it was in the English tongue. 10

142

2

“Sweet babe ! They say that I am mad, 11But nay, my heart is far too glad ; 12And I am happy when I sing 13Full many a sad and doleful thing : 14Then, lovely baby, do not fear! 15I pray thee have no fear of me, 16But ,safe as in a cradle, here 17My lovely baby! thou shalt be, 18To thee I know too much I owe ; 19I cannot work thee any woe. 20

3

A fire was once within my brain ; 21And in my head a dull, dull pain; 22And fiendish faces one, two, three, 23Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. 24But then there came a sight of joy ; 25It came at once to do me good ; 26I waked, and saw my little boy, 27My little boy of flesh and blood ; 28Oh joy for me that sight to see ! 29For he was here, and only he. 30

143

4

Suck, little babe, oh suck again! 31It cools my blood ; it cools my brain ; 32Thy lips I feel them, baby ! they 33Draw from my heart the pain away. 34Oh! press me with thy little hand ; 35It loosens something at my chest ; 36About that tight and deadly band 37I feel thy little fingers press’d. 38The breeze I see is in the tree ; 39It comes to cool my babe and me.40

5

Oh! love me, love me, little boy! 41Thou art thy mother’s only joy ; 42And do not dread the waves below, 43When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go; 44The high crag cannot work me harm, 45Nor leaping torrents when they howl; 46The babe I carry on my arm, 47He saves for me my precious soul ; 48Then happy lie, for blest am I ; 49Without me my sweet babe would die. 50

144

6

Then do not fear, my boy ! for thee 51Bold as a lion I will be ; 52And I will always be thy guide, 53Through hollow snows and rivers wide. 54I’ll build an Indian bower ; I know 55The leaves that make the softest bed : 56And if from me thou wilt not go, 57But still be true ’till I am dead, 58My pretty thing ! then thou shalt sing, 59As merry as the birds in spring. 60

7

Thy father cares not for my breast, 61’Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest : 62’Tis all thine own ! and if its hue 63Be changed, that was so fair to view, 64’Tis fair enough for thee, my dove ! 65My beauty, little child, is flown ; 66But thou wilt live with me in love, 67And what if my poor cheek be brown ? 68’Tis well for me ; thou canst not see 69How pale and wan it else would be. 70

145

8

Dread not their taunts, my little life! 71I am thy father’s wedded wife ; 72And underneath the spreading tree 73We two will live in honesty. 74If his sweet boy he could forsake, 75With me he never would have stay’d : 76From him no harm my babe can take, 77But he, poor man ! is wretched made, 78And every day we two will pray 79For him that’s gone and far away. 80

9

I’ll teach my boy the sweetest things; 81I’ll teach him how the owlet sings. 82My little babe ! thy lips are still, 83And thou hast almost suck’d thy fill. 84—Where art thou gone my own dear child ?85What wicked looks are those I see ? 86Alas ! alas ! that look so wild, 87It never, never came from me : 88If thou art mad, my pretty lad, 89Then I must be for ever sad. 90

146

10

Oh ! smile on me, my little lamb! 91For I thy own dear mother am. 92My love for thee has well been tried : 93I’ve sought thy father far and wide. 94I know the poisons of the shade, 95I know the earth-nuts fit for food ; 96Then, pretty dear, be not afraid ; 97We’ll find thy father in the wood. 98Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!99And there, my babe ; we’ll live for aye.100

149

the

IDIOT BOY.

1

’Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night, 1The moon is up—the sky is blue, 2The owlet in the moonlight air, 3He shouts from nobody knows where; 4He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5Halloo! halloo! a long halloo! 6

2

—Why bustle thus about your door, 7What means this bustle, Betty Foy? 8Why are you in this mighty fret? 9And why on horseback have you set 10Him whom you love, your idiot boy? 11

150

3

Beneath the moon that shines so bright, 12Till she is tired, let Betty Foy13With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; 14But wherefore set upon a saddle15Him whom she loves, her idiot boy? 16

4

There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed; 17Good Betty! put him down again; 18His lips with joy they burr at you, 19But, Betty! what has he to do 20With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? 21

5

The world will say ’tis very idle, 22Bethink you of the time of night; 23There’s not a mother, no not one, 24But when she hears what you have done, 25Oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright. 26

151

6

But Betty’s bent on her intent, 27For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, 28Old Susan, she who dwells alone, 29Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, 30As if her very life would fail. 31

7

There’s not a house within a mile, 32No hand to help them in distress:33Old Susan lies a bed in pain, 34And sorely puzzled are the twain, 35For what she ails they cannot guess. 36

8

And Betty’s husband’s at the wood, 37Where by the week he doth abide, 38A woodman in the distant vale; 39There’s none to help poor Susan Gale, 40What must be done? what will betide? 41

152

9

And Betty from the lane has fetched 42Her pony, that is mild and good, 43Whether he be in joy or pain, 44Feeding at will along the lane, 45Or bringing faggots from the wood. 46

10

And he is all in travelling trim, 47And by the moonlight, Betty Foy 48Has up upon the saddle set, 49The like was never heard of yet, 50Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. 51

11

And he must post without delay 52Across the bridge that’s in the dale, 53And by the church, and o’er the down, 54To bring a doctor from the town, 55Or she will die, old Susan Gale. 56

153

12

There is no need of boot or spur, 57There is no need of whip or wand, 58For Johnny has his holly-bough, 59And with a hurly-burly now 60He shakes the green bough in his hand. 61

13

And Betty o’er and o’er has told 62The boy who is her best delight, 63Both what to follow, what to shun, 64What do, and what to leave undone, 65How turn to left, and how to right. 66

14

And Betty’s most especial charge, 67Was,“Johnny! Johnny! mind that you 68“Come home again, nor stop at all, 69“Come home again, whate’er befal, 70“My Johnny do, I pray you do.” 71

154

15

To this did Johnny answer make, 72Both with his head, and with his hand, 73And proudly shook the bridle too, 74And then! his words were not a few, 75Which Betty well could understand. 76

16

And now that Johnny is just going, 77Though Betty’s in a mighty flurry, 78She gently pats the pony’s side, 79On which her idiot boy must ride, 80And seems no longer in a hurry. 81

17

But when the pony moved his legs, 82Oh! then for the poor idiot boy! 83For joy he cannot hold the bridle, 84For joy his head and heels are idle, 85He’s idle all for very joy. 86

155

18

And while the pony moves his legs, 87In Johnny’s left-hand you may see, 88The green bough’s motionless and dead; 89The moon that shines above his head 90Is not more still and mute than he. 91

19

His heart it was so full of glee, 92That till full fifty yards were gone, 93He quite forgot his holly whip, 94And all his skill in horsemanship, 95Oh! happy, happy, happy John. 96

20

And Betty’s standing at the door, 97And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows, 98Proud of herself, and proud of him, 99She sees him in his traveling trim; 100How quietly her Johnny goes. 101

156

21

The silence of her idiot boy, 102What hope it sends to Betty’s heart! 103He’s at the guide-post—he turns right, 104She watches till he’s out of sight, 105And Betty will not then depart. 106

22

Burr, burr—now Johnny’s lips they burr, 107As loud as any mill, or near it, 108Meek as a lamb the pony moves, 109And Johnny makes the noise he loves, 110And Betty listens, glad to hear it. 111

23

Away she hies to Susan Gale: 112And Johnny’s in a merry tune, 113The owlets hoot, the owlets curr, 114And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr,115And on he goes beneath the moon. 116

157

24

His steed and he right well agree, 117For of this pony there’s a rumour, 118That should he lose his eyes and ears, 119And should he live a thousand years, 120He never will be out of humour. 121

25

But then he is a horse that thinks! 122And when he thinks his pace is slack; 123Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, 124Yet for his life he cannot tell 125What he has got upon his back. 126

26

So through the moonlight lanes they go, 127And far into the moonlight dale, 128And by the church, and o’er the down, 129To bring a doctor from the town, 130To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 131

158

27

And Betty, now at Susan’s side, 132Is in the middle of her story, 133What comfort Johnny soon will bring, 134With many a most diverting thing, 135Of Johnny’s wit and Johnny’s glory. 136

28

And Betty’s still at Susan’s side: 137By this time she’s not quite so flurried; 138Demure with porringer and plate 139She sits, as if in Susan’s fate 140Her life and soul were buried. 141

29

But Betty, poor good woman! she, 142You plainly in her face may read it, 143Could lend out of that moment’s store 144Five years of happiness or more, 145To any that might need it. 146

159

30

But yet I guess that now and then 147With Betty all was not so well, 148And to the road she turns her ears, 149And thence full many a sound she hears, 150Which she to Susan will not tell. 151

31

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 152“As sure as there’s a moon in heaven,” 153Cries Betty, “he’ll be back again; 154“They’ll both be here, ’tis almost ten, 155“They’ll both be here before eleven.” 156

32

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, 157The clock gives warning for eleven; 158’Tis on the stroke—“If Johnny’s near,” 159Quoth Betty “he will soon be here, 160“As sure as there’s a moon in heaven.” 161

160

33

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

34

And Betty, half an hour ago, 167On Johnny vile reflections cast; 168“A little idle sauntering thing!” 169With other names, an endless string, 170But now that time is gone and past. 171

35

And Betty’s drooping at the heart, 172That happy time all past and gone, 173“How can it be he is so late? 174“The doctor he has made him wait, 175“Susan! they’ll both be here anon.” 176

161

36

And Susan’s growing worse and worse, 177And Betty’s in a sad quandary; 178And then there’s nobody to say 179If she must go or she must stay: 180—She’s in a sad quandary. 181

37

The clock is on the stroke of one; 182But neither Doctor nor his guide 183Appear along the moonlight road,184There’s neither horse nor man abroad, 185And Betty’s still at Susan’s side. 186

38

And Susan she begins to fear 187Of sad mischances not a few, 188That Johnny may perhaps be drown’d, 189Or lost perhaps, and never found; 190Which they must both for ever rue. 191

162

39

She prefaced half a hint of this 192With, “God forbid it should be true!” 193At the first word that Susan said 194Cried Betty, rising from the bed, 195“Susan, I’d gladly stay with you. 196

40

“I must be gone, I must away, 197“Consider, Johnny’s but half-wise; 198“Susan, we must take care of him, 199“If he is hurt in life or limb”— 200“Oh God forbid!” poor Susan cries. 201

41

“What can I do?” says Betty, going, 202“What can I do to ease your pain? 203“Good Susan tell me, and I’ll stay; 204“I fear you’re in a dreadful way, 205“But I shall soon be back again.” 206

163

42

“Good Betty go, good Betty go, 207“There’s nothing that can ease my pain.” 208Then off she hies, but with a prayer 209That God poor Susan’s life would spare, 210Till she comes back again. 211

43

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, 212And far into the moonlight dale; 213And how she ran, and how she walked, 214And all that to herself she talked, 215Would surely be a tedious tale. 216

44

In high and low, above, below, 217In great and small, in round and square, 218In tree and tower was Johnny seen, 219In bush and brake, in black and green, 220’Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where. 221

164

45

She’s past the bridge that’s in the dale, 222And now the thought torments her sore, 223Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, 224To hunt the moon that’s in the brook, 225And never will be heard of more. 226

46

And now she’s high upon the down, 227Alone amid a prospect wide; 228There’s neither Johnny nor his horse, 229Among the fern or in the gorse; 230There’s neither doctor nor his guide. 231

47

“Oh saints! what is become of him? 232“Perhaps he’s climbed into an oak, 233“Where he will stay till he is dead; 234“Or sadly he has been misled, 235“And joined the wandering gypsey-folk. 236

165

48

“Or him that wicked pony’s carried 237“To the dark cave, the goblins’ hall, 238“Or in the castle he’s pursuing, 239“Among the ghosts, his own undoing; 240“Or playing with the waterfall.” 241

49

At poor old Susan then she railed, 242While to the town she posts away; 243“If Susan had not been so ill, 244“Alas! I should have had him still, 245“My Johnny, till my dying day.” 246

50

Poor Betty! in this sad distemper, 247The doctor’s self would hardly spare, 248Unworthy things she talked and wild, 249Even he, of cattle the most mild, 250The pony had his share. 251

166

51

And now she’s got into the town, 252And to the doctor’s door she hies; 253’Tis silence all on every side; 254The town so long, the town so wide, 255Is silent as the skies. 256

52

And now she’s at the doctor’s door, 257She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap, 258The doctor at the casement shews, 259His glimmering eyes that peep and doze; 260And one hand rubs his old night-cap. 261

53

“Oh Doctor! Doctor! where’s my Johnny?”262“I’m here, what is’t you want with me?” 263“Oh Sir! you know I’m Betty Foy, 264“And I have lost my poor dear boy, 265“You know him—him you often see; 266

16754

“He’s not so wise as some folks be,” 267“The devil take his wisdom!” said 268The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, 269“What, woman! should I know of him?” 270And, grumbling, he went back to bed. 271

55

“O woe is me! O woe is me! 272“Here will I die; here will I die; 273“I thought to find my Johnny here, 274“But he is neither far nor near, 275“Oh! what a wretched mother I!” 276

56

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

168

57

Then up along the town she hies, 282No wonder if her senses fail,283This piteous news so much it shock’d her,284She quite forgot to send the Doctor, 285To comfort poor old Susan Gale. 286

58

And now she’s high upon the down, 287And she can see a mile of road, 288“Oh cruel! I’m almost three-score; 289“Such night as this was ne’er before, 290“There’s not a single soul abroad.” 291

59

She listens, but she cannot hear 292The foot of horse, the voice of man; 293The streams with softest sound are flowing,294The grass you almost hear it growing, 295You hear it now if e’er you can. 296

169

60

The owlets through the long blue night 297Are shouting to each other still: 298Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob, 299They lengthen out the tremulous sob, 300That echoes far from hill to hill. 301

61

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, 302Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin; 303A green-grown pond she just has pass’d, 304And from the brink she hurries fast, 305Lest she should drown herself therein. 306

62

And now she sits her down and weeps; 307Such tears she never shed before; 308“Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy! 309“Oh carry back my idiot boy! 310“And we will ne’er o’erload thee more.”311

170

63

A thought is come into her head; 312“The pony he is mild and good, 313“And we have always used him well; 314“Perhaps he’s gone along the dell, 315“And carried Johnny to the wood.”316

64

Then up she springs as if on wings; 317She thinks no more of deadly sin; 318If Betty fifty ponds should see, 319The last of all her thoughts would be,320To drown herself therein. 321

65

Oh reader! now that I might tell 322What Johnny and his horse are doing! 323What they’ve been doing all this time, 324Oh could I put it into rhyme, 325A most delightful tale pursuing! 326

171

66

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! 327He with his pony now doth roam 328The cliffs and peaks so high that are, 329To lay his hands upon a star, 330And in his pocket bring it home. 331

67

Perhaps he’s turned himself about, 332His face unto his horse’s tail, 333And still and mute, in wonder lost, 334All like a silent horseman-ghost, 335He travels on along the vale. 336

68

And now, perhaps, he’s hunting sheep, 337A fierce and dreadful hunter he! 338Yon valley, that’s so trim and green, 339In five months’ time, should he be seen, 340A desart wilderness will be. 341

172

69

Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, 342And like the very soul of evil, 343He’s galloping away, away, 344And so he’ll gallop on for aye, 345The bane of all that dread the devil. 346

70

I to the muses have been bound, 347These fourteen years, by strong indentures;348Oh gentle muses! let me tell 349But half of what to him befel, 350For sure he met with strange adventures. 351

71

Oh gentle muses! is this kind? 352Why will ye thus my suit repel? 353Why of your further aid bereave me? 354And can you thus unfriended leave me? 355Ye muses! whom I love so well. 356

173

72

Who’s yon, that, near the waterfall, 357Which thunders down with headlong force,358Beneath the moon, yet shining fair, 359As careless as if nothing were, 360Sits upright on a feeding horse? 361

73

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

74

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

174

75

Your pony’s worth his weight in gold, 372Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! 373She’s coming from among the trees, 374And now, all full in view, she sees 375Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. 376

76

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

77

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

175

78

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

79

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

80

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

176

81

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

82

“Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; 407“You’ve done your best, and that is all.” 408She took the reins, when this was said, 409And gently turned the pony’s head 410From the loud water-fall. 411

83

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

177

84

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

85

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

86

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

178

87

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

88

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

89

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

179

90

For while they all were travelling home, 447Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do, 448“Where all this long night you have been, 449“What you have heard, what you have seen,450“And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”451

91

Now Johnny all night long had heard 452The owls in tuneful concert strive;453No doubt too he the moon had seen; 454For in the moonlight he had been 455From eight o’clock till five.456

92

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