Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2

SONG. SONG. She dwelt among th' untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love. A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the Eye! —Fair, as a star when only one Is shining in the sky! She liv'd unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceas'd to be; But she is in her Grave, and Oh! The difference to me. A slumber did my spirit seal, I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force She neither hears nor sees Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees! The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE . "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf, Exclaim'd a thundering Voice, Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, That all bespatter'd with his foam, And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home. "Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffer'd long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be pass'd: But seeing no relief, at last He venture'd to reply. "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not! Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this, our natal spot, Once liv'd a happy life! You stirr'd me on my rocky bed— What pleasure thro' my veins you spread! The Summer long from day to day My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay." When Spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreath to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves now shed and gone The linnet lodg'd and for us two Chaunted his pretty songs when you Had little voice or none. But now proud thoughts are in your breast— What grief is mine you see. Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left— Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble way Would deck you many a Winter's day, A happy Eglantine! What more he said, I cannot tell. The stream came thundering down the dell And gallop'd loud and fast; I listen'd, nor aught else could hear, The Briar quak'd and much I fear. Those accents were his last. The OAK and the BROOM, A PASTORAL. His simple truths did Andrew glean Beside the babbling rills; A careful student he had been Among the woods and hills. One winter's night when through the Trees The wind was thundering, on his knees His youngest born did Andrew hold: And while the rest, a ruddy quire Were seated round their blazing fire, This Tale the Shepherd told. I saw a crag, a lofty stone As ever tempest beat! Out of its head an Oak had grown, A Broom out of its feet. The time was March, a chearful noon— The thaw-wind with the breath of June Breath'd gently from the warm South-west; When in a voice sedate with age This Oak, half giant and half sage, His neighbour thus address'd. "Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge The Frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge. Look up, and think, above your head What trouble surely will be bred; Last night I heard a crash—'tis true, The splinters took another road— I see them yonder—what a load For such a Thing as you!" You are preparing as before To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back—no more— You had a strange escape. Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke, It came, you know, with fire and smoke And hither did it bend its way. This pond'rous block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day. The Thing had better been asleep, Whatever thing it were, Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep, That first did plant you there. For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless Shepherd-boy To come and slumber in your bower; And trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. "From me this friendly warning take"— —The Broom began to doze, And thus to keep herself awake Did gently interpose. "My thanks for your discourse are due; That it is true, and more than true, I know and I have known it long; Frail is the bond, by which we hold Our being, be we young or old, Wise, foolish, weak or strong." Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant Heritage; My Father many a happy year Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attain'd a good old age. Even such as his may be may lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not In truth a favor'd plant! The Spring for me a garland weaves Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves, And, when the Frost is in the sky, My branches are so fresh and gay That You might look on me and say This plant can never die. The butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my Blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, Beneath my shade the mother ewe Lies with her infant lamb; I see The love, they to each other make, And the sweet joy, which they partake, It is a joy to me. Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renew'd. But in the branches of the Oak Two Ravens now began to croak Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And to her own green bower the breeze That instant brought two stripling Bees To feed and murmur there. One night the Wind came from the North And blew a furious blast, At break of day I ventur'd forth And near the Cliff I pass'd. The storm had fall'n upon the Oak And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away; And in one hospitable Cleft The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day. LUCY GRAY. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wild Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon." At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town. The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door. And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came. They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS , OR DUNGEON-GILL FORCE , [5] A PASTORAL . [Footnote 5: 'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.] I. The valley rings with mirth and joy, Among the hills the Echoes play A never, never ending song To welcome in the May. The Magpie chatters with delight; The mountain Raven's youngling Brood Have left the Mother and the Nest, And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food, Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart In very wantonness of Heart. II. Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two Boys are sitting in the sun; It seems they have no work to do Or that their work is done. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas Hymn, Or with that plant which in our dale We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail Their rusty Hats they trim: And thus as happy as the Day, Those Shepherds wear the time away. III. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song; The thrush is busy in the Wood, And carols loud and strong. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, Those Boys with their green Coronal, They never hear the cry, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill. IV. Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew I'll run with you a race."—No more— Away the Shepherds flew. They leapt, they ran, and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill, Seeing, that he should lose the prize, "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries— James stopp'd with no good will: Said Walter then, "Your task is here, 'Twill keep you working half a year." V. "Till you have cross'd where I shall cross, Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat." James proudly took him at his word, But did not like the feat. It was a spot, which you may see If ever you to Langdale go: Into a chasm a mighty Block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock; The gulph is deep below, And in a bason black and small Receives a lofty Waterfall. VI. With staff in hand across the cleft The Challenger began his march; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd The middle of the arch. When list! he hears a piteous moan— Again! his heart within him dies— His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost, He totters, pale as any ghost, And, looking down, he spies A Lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. VII. The Lamb had slipp'd into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The Cataract had borne him down Into the gulph profound, His dam had seen him when he fell, She saw him down the torrent borne; And while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above Sent forth a cry forlorn, The Lamb, still swimming round and round Made answer to that plaintive sound. VIII. When he had learnt, what thing it was, That sent this rueful cry; I ween, The Boy recover'd heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferr'd their task; Nor was there wanting other aid— A Poet, one who loves the brooks Far better than the sages' books, By chance had thither stray'd; And there the helpless Lamb he found By those huge rocks encompass'd round. IX. He drew it gently from the pool, And brought it forth into the light; The Shepherds met him with his charge An unexpected sight! Into their arms the Lamb they took, Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"— Then up the steep ascent they hied And placed him at his Mother's side; And gently did the Bard Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. 'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold North's unhallow'd ground, Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side. He loved—The pretty Barbara died, And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made. Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart: I look—the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be suppress'd? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or chuse another tree Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chain'd! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustain'd; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb!— Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear. The man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail. Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know Such happiness as I have known to-day. POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears, There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail, And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's, The only one dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes. Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more The house of thy Father will open its door, And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown, May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own. INSCRIPTION For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water . If thou in the dear love of some one friend Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.—St. Herbert hither came And here, for many seasons, from the world Remov'd, and the affections of the world He dwelt in solitude. He living here, This island's sole inhabitant! had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd As his own soul; and when within his cave Alone he knelt before the crucifix While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd Along the beach of this small isle and thought Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain So pray'd he:—as our Chronicles report, Though here the Hermit number'd his last days, Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend, Those holy men both died in the same hour. INSCRIPTION For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere . Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet as it is Do take it in good part; for he, the poor Vitruvius of our village, had no help From the great city; never on the leaves Of red Morocco folio saw display'd The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. It is a homely pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern, A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains, and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep Panting beneath the burthen of their wool Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep, Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy. To a SEXTON . Let thy wheel-barrow alone. Wherefore, Sexton, piling still In thy bone-house bone on bone? Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid. —These died in peace each with the other, Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. Mark the spot to which I point! From this platform eight feet square Take not even a finger-joint: Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly Daughter lies From weakness, now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. Look but at the gardener's pride, How he glories, when he sees Roses, lilies, side by side, Violets in families. By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden. Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality. And should I live through sun and rain Seven widow'd years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover! ANDREW JONES. I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed His children up to waste and pillage. I wish the press-gang or the drum With its tantara sound would come, And sweep him from the village! I said not this, because he loves Through the long day to swear and tipple; But for the poor dear sake of one To whom a foul deed he had done, A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple! For this poor crawling helpless wretch Some Horseman who was passing by, A penny on the ground had thrown; But the poor Cripple was alone And could not stoop—no help was nigh. Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground For it had long been droughty weather: So with his staff the Cripple wrought Among the dust till he had brought The halfpennies together. It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way Just at the time; and there he found The Cripple in the mid-day heat Standing alone, and at his feet He saw the penny on the ground. He stopp'd and took the penny up. And when the Cripple nearer drew, Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown. What a man finds is all his own, And so, my Friend, good day to you." And hence I said, that Andrew's boys Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village! The TWO THIEVES, Or the last Stage of AVARICE . Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine And the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne; When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. What feats would I work with my magical hand! Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care. For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves! Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told, There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a stealing together. With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide, And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side. Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly. 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone; And now with old Daniel you see how it fares You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun Has peer'd o'er the beeches their work is begun: And yet into whatever sin they may fall, This Child but half knows it and that not at all. They hunt through the street with deliberate tread, And each in his turn is both leader and led; And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam, For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home; Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done, And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one. Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd, I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side: Long yet may'st thou live, for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound: Then all at once the air was still, And showers of hail-stones patter'd round. Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above, I sate within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green, A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er, You could not lay a hair between: And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze—no breath of air— Yet here, and there, and every where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing. Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind! SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Though almost with eagle pinion O'er the rocks the Chamois roam. Yet he has some small dominion Which no doubt he calls his home. If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less he loves his haven On the bosom of the cliff. Though the Sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave; Yet he slumbers without motion On the calm and silent wave. Day and night my toils redouble! Never nearer to the goal, Night and day, I feel the trouble, Of the Wanderer in my soul. RUTH. RUTH. When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And so, not seven years old, The slighted Child at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill In thoughtless freedom bold. And she had made a pipe of straw And from that oaten pipe could draw All sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An Infant of the woods. There came a Youth from Georgia's shore, A military Casque he wore With splendid feathers drest; He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung: Ah no! he spake the English tongue And bare a Soldier's name; And when America was free From battle and from jeopardy He cross the ocean came. With hues of genius on his cheek In finest tones the Youth could speak. —While he was yet a Boy The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run Had been his dearest joy. He was a lovely Youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he; And when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea. Among the Indians he had fought, And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear, Such tales as told to any Maid By such a Youth in the green shade Were perilous to hear. He told of Girls, a happy rout, Who quit their fold with dance and shout Their pleasant Indian Town To gather strawberries all day long, Returning with a choral song When day-light is gone down. He spake of plants divine and strange That ev'ry day their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues! With budding, fading, faded flowers They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews. He told of the Magnolia, [6] spread High as a cloud, high over head! The Cypress and her spire, Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam [7] Cover a hundred leagues and seem To set the hills on fire. [Footnote 6: Magnolia grandiflora.] [Footnote 7: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.] The Youth of green Savannahs spake, And many an endless endless lake With all its fairy crowds Of islands that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds: And then he said "How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, A gardener in the shade, Still wandering with an easy mind To build a household fire and find A home in every glade." "What days and what sweet years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with thee So pass'd in quiet bliss, And all the while" said he "to know That we were in a world of woe. On such an earth as this!" And then he sometimes interwove Dear thoughts about a Father's love, "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun." Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side And drive the flying deer. "Beloved Ruth!" No more he said Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed A solitary tear, She thought again—and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer. "And now, as fitting is and right, We in the Church our faith will plight, A Husband and a Wife." Even so they did; and I may say That to sweet Ruth that happy day Was more than human life. Through dream and vision did she sink, Delighted all the while to think That on those lonesome floods And green Savannahs she should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods. But, as you have before been told, This Stripling, sportive gay and bold, And, with his dancing crest, So beautiful, through savage lands Had roam'd about with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West. The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky Might well be dangerous food. For him, a Youth to whom was given So much of earth so much of Heaven, And such impetuous blood. Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart. Nor less to feed voluptuous thought The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers; The breezes their own languor lent, The stars had feelings which they sent Into those magic bowers. Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween, That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent: For passions link'd to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he liv'd, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known; Deliberately and undeceiv'd Those wild men's vices he receiv'd, And gave them back his own. His genius and his moral frame Were thus impair'd, and he became The slave of low desires; A man who without self-controul Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires. And yet he with no feign'd delight Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night Had luv'd her, night and morn; What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature play'd So kind and so forlorn? But now the pleasant dream was gone, No hope, no wish remain'd, not one, They stirr'd him now no more, New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wish'd to live As lawless as before. Meanwhile as thus with him it fared. They for the voyage were prepared And went to the sea-shore, But, when they thither came, the Youth Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more. "God help thee Ruth!"—Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad And in a prison hous'd, And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs She fearfully carouz'd. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May, They all were with her in her cell, And a wild brook with chearful knell Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought, And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread. Among the fields she breath'd again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free, And to the pleasant Banks of Tone [8] She took her way, to dwell alone Under the greenwood tree. The engines of her grief, the tools That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever tax'd them with the ill Which had been done to her. [Footnote 8: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.] A Barn her winter bed supplies, But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And in this tale we all agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. If she is press'd by want of food She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road side, And there she begs at one steep place, Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride. That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away, but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers; This flute made of a hemlock stalk At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock Woodman hears. I, too have pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild, Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd A young and happy Child! Farewel! and when thy days are told Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mold Thy corpse shall buried be, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee. LINES Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale . Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little dome Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.— The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd With all his ancestry. Then peace to him And for the outrage which he had devis'd Entire forgiveness.—But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose, There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone. In the School of —— is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines . If Nature, for a favorite Child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild Yet never once doth go astray, Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. —When through this little wreck of fame, Cypher and syllable, thine eye Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy. And if a sleeping tear should wake Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made. Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool, Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school. The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs Of one tir'd out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness. Yet sometimes when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round It seem'd as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound. —Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, Thou happy soul, and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee? The Two April Mornings. We walk'd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun, And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, "The will of God be done!" A village Schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering grey; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travell'd merrily to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop, And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top To me he made reply. Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind. And on that slope of springing corn The self-same crimson hue Fell from the sky that April morn, The same which now I view! With rod and line my silent sport I plied by Derwent's wave, And, coming to the church, stopp'd short Beside my Daughter's grave. Nine summers had she scarcely seen The pride of all the vale; And then she sang!—she would have been A very nightingale. Six feet in earth my Emma lay, And yet I lov'd her more, For so it seem'd, than till that day I e'er had lov'd before. And, turning from her grave, I met Beside the church-yard Yew A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. The FOUNTAIN, A Conversation . We talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of Friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat, And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. Now, Matthew, let us try to match This water's pleasant tune With some old Border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon. Or of the Church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made! On silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old Man replied, The grey-hair'd Man of glee. "Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes! Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows." And here, on this delightful day, I cannot chuse but think How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay Beside this Fountain's brink. My eyes are dim with childish tears. My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears, Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will. With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free: But we are press'd by heavy laws, And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore. If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The houshold hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. "My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approv'd, And many love me, but by none Am I enough belov'd." "Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains," "And, Matthew, for thy Children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasp'd his hands, and said, "Alas! that cannot be." We rose up from the fountain-side, And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide, And through the wood we went, And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock And the bewilder'd chimes.

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