: ruslit.live, RusLit.space. .


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         # () . . . . (1793). " " (1798) ( ) " ".. , , , . (1843) 535 ( 1802-1846)

        

         , ( ) , , , , , ,
         ? , , , , , . , , , , , , , .
         , , , : , , .
         , , ; , XX. .

* * *
         (1770-1850) - , , , (Lake District).
         . , . , , : , - . ; , , . , : , , . , , , , . , , , . , , , ,
.
         1787. , . , , , , .
         1790., , - - , . , , . , . , , , - .
         , , , , , , , . - , . . 1792., , , , , . 1793. .
         . , , , , , , , . , , , ( ,
1815).
        
. , . XIX. , , : , , , . , , . , , . () , , , , , . () - ,
, , . , , , [Morley, John. Introduction. In: The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth. London, 1891, p. LIII-LIX.] .
         , . , , , , .
, . : , ( ), , . , . 1792. , , , . , , , . , ; , , , , , , , , . 1802., ,
, , , ,
[ : Legouis, Emile. William Wordworth and Annette Vallon. Hamden (Conn.), 1967.] .
         1792. . : , , . . , , , , . , , , . , - , - ; , , , , .
         , . XIX. ; , , [Selincourt, Ernest de Dorothy Wordsworth, a Biography. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1965.] .
         - , : . 1793. : . . (An Evening Walk. Addressed to a Young Lady, ), -
, (Descriptive Sketches Taken during a Pedestrian Tour among the Alps).
         , . , , , . (Biographic Literaria, 1817) : - , : , -, . , , , ; , , [Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. A Critical Edition of the Major Works. Oxford, New York, Oxford U.P., 1992, pp. 199-200.] .
         , 1794. . , . (Guilt and Sorrow), : , , , , , , . , , .
         , , 1795. , 900 , . , , , , .
         , , , , . , , - . - , , , , [The early letters of William and Dorothy Wordworth. Arranged and edited by Ernest de Selincourt. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1935, p. 100.] . : , (The Borderers),
(The Ruined Cottage).
         1795. , , , , , .
, , .
         . , .
         . , , , . .
         , -. , , . , : . , ;
        , - . , , : , , .
         . . 1798 , , , , , , . , , -, . , , - , ; : . , , , . , , ,
, , . , .
         , : , , , , , , , , , - , . , , , , , - , , [ . . . .: . . . . . . ., - , . 280.] . ,
, . , 1840 - , , , . , , , : , , , , - , , , , .
         - , , . . , (Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 1751) , , ; (Deserted Village, 1769) , . , ,
(Village, 1783) : , , , , .
         , - , , , , . , , , , , , .
         : , . , , , , . (hard pastoral).
         : , , , , ; - . , , , . , - - ( , , , ) - (, , ).
         - , : , , , , , . , - , , , , , , . , .
         , : . , , , . , - : , , , , . - , , , , . , . , , , , , , .
         , , , ( ), , ( ), . ,
, , , .

1798., 30 , . , , . : - , , , .
         1800. , , . : , , . , ,
        - , - , , , , , , , ( , , ) ,
        - [ , .
281.] . , , , , - .
         1798. , , . , , . XVIII. , , . , , , , , .
         : , , , , . , , :

        
         ,
         , ,
         .
        , , . , , , , . , : . , , , , . , .
         , , . : , , , , , , , , . , , , . 17 1799. , - ( ), , . : , , . .
         , , . , , , : , - . , 1805. , , . , - , 6 1805..
         , , , , .
, , , , . , , , - , .
         1800. , , . : , , , , : . ,
(The Idle Shepherd-Boys), : , , , , , , , . , . XVIII. , , ,
, , .
         , , , . , , ? , , . , , , , . ; , , , . , , . - , , , . , , .
, , , , ? , , - , .
         1802. . , [The Love Letters of William and Mary Wordsworth. Ed. by Belt Darlington. Ithaka (N. Y.), 1981.] . , , . 1803
1810. ; . . X. , Let other bards of angels sing, , : dearer far than light and life are dear How rich that forehead's calm expance, .
         1803., , . : , - ; , , , , , , , , , [Wordsworth, Dorothy. Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, A.D. 1803. Edinbourgh, 1874, p. 76.] .
         , , , . . - , . 1800. ( , , , , - , , , . : , , , , , . .
         , ,
- (1821). ,
, . 1807. , , . , , , . , - , - , , . , , . - - ( ), , , , , . , , ,
( , ). , , , , .
         , , , , . , , , - , . . , , , [De Quincey, Thomas. Literary Reminiscences. In 2 vols. Boston, 1851.] .
         . , , . , , , , . , , , , , . , : 텔 , , .
         , , . , , , , , . - . , , . , , - , , , . , !
[Wordsworth, Dorothy. The Alfoxden Journal, 1798. The Grasmere Journal, 1800-1803. London, 1958, p. 245.] .
         1806. : , , , .

1809-1810. , , ( 28 ), . ,

1810. . . . , , , , , . ; , .
         , , . , , .
1807. . , , , .
         , , , 1802., . , , , , , , . : , , , (Poems Dedicated to National Independence and Liberty, 1 - 1802-1807., II - 1808-1814.). , , . , , , .
         1810 - - , , , . , (Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room, Scorn not the Sonnet, Critic). : (The River Duddon, A Series of Sonnets, 1820) - , , ; (Ecclesiastical Sonnets, 1822) - ; , . 500 , , XVIII.
.
         1813. , , , ; , . ., 200 . , -. : !!! - . , - , : , , , ..? [Wordsworth, William and Wordsworth, Dorothy. The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth. The Middle Age. Arranged and edited by Ernest de Selincourt. In 2 vols. Oxford, 1937. Vol. 1, p. 100.] . . , , , ,
, , ., , [. : Manley, Seen. Dorothy and William Wordsworth: the Heart of a Circle of Friends. New York,
1974, p. 185.] . , .
         1828. , , : , , . , , , , , , . , , . , , , . , , . , . . , , , ,
, ; - [Ibid.
        pp. 189-190.] .
         1830 - . 1834. : . , ; , , , , , , .
         1834. , -, . , , - ( ), . .
1847., , . .
         1820 - . , , , . 1830 - , XIX. , .
         . , .
1830 - [, . : (lakists): , , // , 1830. 58, .
175-180, 59, . 183-185.] , . .
[ . ., 1833.] , [ , 1850, . 67, . 7, . 25-26.] . . . , , - .
1870 - . , . . . XX. , .
        .

        "From "LYRICAL BALLADS"
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        LINES 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

         - Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
         Far from all human dwelling: what if here
         No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
         What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
         Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
         That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
         By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

         Who he was
         That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
         First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,
         Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,
         I well remember. - He was one who own'd
         No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd,
         And big with lofty views, he to the world
         Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
         Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
         And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
         All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
         At once, with rash disdain he turned away,

         And with the food of pride sustained his soul
         In solitude. - Stranger! these gloomy boughs
         Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
         His only visitants a straggling sheep,
         The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
         And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
         And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
         Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
         A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
         An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
         And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
         On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
         Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
         Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
         The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
         Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
         Warm from the labours of benevolence,
         The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
         Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
         With mournful joy, to think that others felt
         What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
         On visionary views would fancy feed,
         Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
         He died, this seat his only monument.

         If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
         Of young imagination have kept pure,
         Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,
         Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
         Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
         For any living thing, hath faculties
         Which he has never used; that thought with him
         Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
         Is ever on himself, doth look on one,
         The least of nature's works, one who might move
         The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
         Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!
         Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
         True dignity abides with him alone
         Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
         Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
         In lowliness of heart.

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         .

        THE FEMALE VAGRANT

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

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

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

         The staff I yet remember which upbore
         The bending body of my active sire;
         His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore
         When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;
         When market-morning came, the neat attire
         With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;
         My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,
         When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;
         The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.

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

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

         Can I forget that miserable hour,
         When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
         Peering above the trees, the steeple tower,
         That on his marriage-day sweet music made?
         Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,
         Close by my mother in their native bowers:
         Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, -
         I could not pray: - through tears that fell in showers,
         Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

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

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

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

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

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

         But from delay the summer calms were past.
         On as we drove, the equinoctial deep
         Ran mountains-high before the howling blast.
         We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep
         Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep,
         Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,
         Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,
         That we the mercy of the waves should rue.
         We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.

         Oh! dreadful price of being to resign
         All that is dear in being! better far
         In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,
         Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;
         Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,
         Better our dying bodies to obtrude,
         Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,
         Protract a curst existence, with the brood
         That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

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

         Peaceful as some immeasurable plain
         By the first beams of dawning light impress'd,
         In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main.
         The very ocean has its hour of rest,
         That comes not to the human mourner's breast.
         Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,
         A heavenly silence did the waves invest;
         I looked and looked along the silent air,
         Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.
         Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps!
         And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke,
         Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps!
         The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!
         The shriek that from the distant battle broke!
         The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host
         Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke
         To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd,
         Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!

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

         Some mighty gulf of separation past,
         I seemed transported to another world: -
         A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast
         The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd,
         And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled
         The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,
         And from all hope I was forever hurled.
         For me-farthest from earthly port to roam
         Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

         Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made
         Of potters wandering on from door to door:
         But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,
         And other joys my fancy to allure;
         The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor
         In barn uplighted, and companions boon
         Well met from far with revelry secure,
         In depth of forest glade, when jocund June
         Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

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

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

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

         Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,
         In tears, the sun towards that country tend
         Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
         And now across this moor my steps I bend -
         On! tell me whither-for no earthly friend
         Have I. - She ceased, and weeping turned away,
         As if because her tale was at an end
         She wept; - because she had no more to say
         Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

        GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

        A True Story

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

         In March, December, and in July,
         Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
         The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
         His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
         At night, at morning, and at noon,
         Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
         Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
         His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

         Young Harry was a lusty drover,
         And who so stout of limb as he?
         His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
         His voice was like the voice of three.
         Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
         Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
         And any man who passed her door
         Might see how poor a hut she had.

         All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
         And then her three hours' work at night,
         Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
         It would not pay for candle-light.
         Remote from sheltered village-green,
         On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
         Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
         And hoary dews are slow to melt.

         By the same fire to boil their pottage,
         Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
         Will often live in one small cottage;
         But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
         Twas well enough when summer came,
         The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
         Then at her door the canty Dame
         Would sit, as any linnet, gay.

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

         joy for her! whene'er in winter
         The winds at night had made a rout;
         And scattered many a lusty splinter
         And many a rotten bough about.
         Yet never had she, well or sick,
         As every man who knew her says,
         A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
         Enough to warm her for three days.

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

         Now Harry he had long suspected
         This trespass of old Goody Blake;
         And vowed that she should be detected -
         That he on her would vengeance take.
         And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
         And to the fields his road would take;
         And there, at night, in frost and snow,
         He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

         And once, behind a rick of barley,
         Thus looking out did Harry stand:
         The moon was full and shining clearly,
         And crisp with frost the stubble land.
         - He hears a noise-he's all awake -
         Again? - on tip-toe down the hill
         He softly creeps - 'tis Goody Blake;
         She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!

         Right glad was he when he beheld her:
         Stick after stick did Goody pull:
         He stood behind a bush of elder,
         Till she had filled her apron full.
         When with her load she turned about,
         The by-way back again to take;
         He started forward, with a shout,
         And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

         And fiercely by the arm he took her,
         And by the arm he held her fast,
         And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
         And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" -
         Then Goody, who had nothing said,
         Her bundle from her lap let fall;
         And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
         To God that is the judge of all.

         She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
         While Harry held her by the arm -
         "God! who art never out of hearing,
         may he never more be warm!"
         The cold, cold moon above her head,
         Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
         Young Harry heard what she had said:
         And icy cold he turned away.

         He went complaining all the morrow
         That he was cold and very chill:
         His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
         Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
         That day he wore a riding-coat,
         But not a whit the warmer he:
         Another was on Thursday brought,
         And ere the Sabbath he had three.

         'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
         And blankets were about him pinned;
         Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
         Like a loose casement in the wind.
         And Harry's flesh it fell away;
         And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
         That, live as long as live he may,
         He never will be warm again.

         No word to any man he utters,
         A-bed or up, to young or old;
         But ever to himself he mutters,
         "Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
         A-bed or up, by night or day;
         His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
         Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
         Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!

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        LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE AND SENT
        BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED

         It is the first mild day of March:
         Each minute sweeter than before
         The redbreast sings from the tall larch
         That stands beside our door.

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

         My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
         Now that our morning meal is done,
         Make haste, your morning task resign;
         Come forth and feel the sun.

         Edward will come with you; - and, pray,
         Put on with speed your woodland dress;
         And bring no book: for this one day
         We'll give to idleness.

         No joyless forms shall regulate
         Our living calendar:
         We from to-day, my Friend, will date
         The opening of the year.

         Love, now a universal birth,
         From heart to heart is stealing,
         From earth to man, from man to earth:
         - It is the hour of feeling.

         One moment now may give us more
         Than years of toiling reason:
         Our minds shall drink at every pore
         The spirit of the season.

         Some silent laws our hearts will make,
         Which they shall long obey:
         We for the year to come may take
         Our temper from to-day.

         And from the blessed power that rolls
         About, below, above,
         We'll frame the measure of our souls:
         They shall be tuned to love.

         Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
         With speed put on your woodland dress;
         And bring no book: for this one day
         We'll give to idleness.

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        SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED

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

         A long blue liver-coat has he,
         That's fair behind, and fair before;
         Yet, meet him where you will, you see
         At once that he is poor.
         Full five and twenty years he lived
         A running huntsman merry;
         And, though he has but one eye left,
         His cheek is like a cherry.

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

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

         And he is lean and he is sick,
         His little body's half awry
         His ancles they are swoln and thick
         His legs are thin and dry.
         When he was young he little knew
         Of husbandry or tillage;
         And now he's forced to work, though weak,
         - The weakest in the village.

         He all the country could outrun,
         Could leave both man and horse behind;
         And often, ere the race was done,
         He reeled and was stone-blind.
         And still there's something in the world
         At which his heart rejoices;
         For when the chiming hounds are out,
         He dearly loves their voices!

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

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

         Few months of life has he in store,
         As he to you will tell,
         For still, the more he works, the more
         His poor old ankles swell.
         My gentle reader, I perceive
         How patiently you've waited,
         And I'm afraid that you expect
         Some tale will be related.

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

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

         "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
         Give me your tool," to him I said;
         And at the word right gladly he
         Received my proffer'd aid.
         I struck, and with a single blow
         The tangled root I sever'd,
         At which the poor old man so long
         And vainly had endeavour'd.

         The tears into his eyes were brought,
         And thanks and praises seemed to run
         So fast out of his heart, I thought
         They never would have done.
         - I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
         With coldness still returning.
         Alas! the gratitude of men
         Has oftener left me mourning.

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        ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

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

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

         My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
         I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
         Our pleasant home, when spring began,
         A long, long year before.

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

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

         The young lambs ran a pretty race;
         The morning sun shone bright and warm;
         "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
         And so is Liswyn farm."

         "My little boy, which like you more,"
         I said and took him by the arm -
         "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
         Or here at Liswyn farm?"

         "And tell me, had you rather be,"
         I said and held him by the arm,
         "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
         Or here at Liswyn farm?"

         In careless mood he looked at me,
         While still I held him by the arm,
         And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
         Than here at Liswyn farm."

         "Now, little Edward, say why so;
         My little Edward, tell me why;"
         "I cannot tell, I do not know."
         "Why, this is strange," said I.

         "For, here are woods and green-hills warm;
         There surely must some reason be
         Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
         For Kilve by the green sea."

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

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

         Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
         And thus to me he made reply:
         "At Kilve there was no weather-cock,
         And that's the reason why."

         dearest, dearest boy! my heart
         For better lore would seldom yearn,
         Could I but teach the hundredth part
         Of what from thee I leam.

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        WE ARE SEVEN

         - A simple Child,
         That lightly draws its breath,
         And feels its life in every limb,
         What should it know of death?

         I met a little cottage Girl:
         She was eight years old, she said;
         Her hair was thick with many a curl
         That clustered round her head.

         She had a rustic, woodland air,
         And she was wildly clad:
         Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
         - Her beauty made me glad.

         "Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
         How many may you be?"
         "How many? Seven in all," she said
         And wondering looked at me.

         "And where are they? I pray you tell.
         She answered, "Seven are we;
         And two of us at Conway dwell,
         And two are gone to sea.

         "Two of us in the church-yard lie,
         My sister and my brother;
         And, in the church-yard cottage, I
         Dwell near them with my mother."

         "You say that two at Conway dwell,
         And two are gone to sea,
         Yet ye are seven! - I pray you tell,
         Sweet Maid, how this may be."

         Then did the little Maid reply,
         "Seven boys and girls are we;
         Two of us in the church-yard lie,
         Beneath the church-yard tree."

         "You run about, my little Maid,
         Your limbs they are alive;
         If two are in the church-yard laid,
         Then ye are only five."

         "Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
         The little Maid replied,
         "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
         And they are side by side.

         "My stockings there I often knit,
         My kerchief there I hem;
         And there upon the ground I sit,
         And sing a song to them.

         "And often after sunset, Sir,
         When it is light and fair,
         I take my little porringer,
         And eat my supper there.

         "The first that died was sister Jane;
         In bed she moaning lay,
         Till God released her of her pain;
         And then she went away.

         "So in the church-yard she was laid;
         And, when the grass was dry,
         Together round her grave we played,
         My brother John and I.

         "And when the ground was white with snow,
         And I could run and slide,
         My brother John was forced to go,
         And he lies by her side."

         "How many are you, then," said I,
         "If they two are in heaven?"
         Quick was the little Maid's reply,
         "O Master! we are seven."

         "But they are dead; those two are dead!
         Their spirits are in heaven!"
         Twas throwing words away; for still
         The little Maid would have her will,
         And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

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        LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING

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

         To her fair works did Nature link
         The human soul that through me ran;
         And much it grieved my heart to think
         What man has made of man.

         Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
         The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
         And 'tis my faith that every flower
         Enjoys the air it breathes.

         The birds around me hopped and played,
         Their thoughts I cannot measure: -
         But the least motion which they made
         It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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

         If this belief from heaven be sent,
         If such be Nature's holy plan,
         Have I not reason to lament
         What man has made of man?

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        THE THORN

         I

         "There is a Thorn - it looks so old,
         In truth, you'd find it hard to say
         How it could ever have been young,
         It looks so old and grey.
         Not higher than a two years' child
         It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
         No leaves it has, no prickly points;
         It is a mass of knotted joints,
         A wretched thing forlorn,
         It stands erect, and like a stone
         With lichens is it overgrown.

         II

         "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
         With lichens to the very top,
         And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
         A melancholy crop:
         Up from the earth these mosses creep,
         And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
         So close, you'd say that they are bent
         With plain and manifest intent
         To drag it to the ground;
         And all have joined in one endeavour
         To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

         III

         "High on a mountain's highest ridge,
         Where oft the stormy winter gale
         Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
         It sweeps from vale to vale;
         Not five yards from the mountain path,
         This Thorn you on your left espy;
         And to the left, three yards beyond,
         You see a little muddy pond
         Of water-never dry
         Though but of compass small, and bare
         To thirsty suns and parching air.

         IV

         "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
         There is a fresh and lovely sight,
         A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
         Just half a foot in height.
         All lovely colours there you see,
         All colours that were ever seen;
         And mossy network too is there,
         As if by hand of lady fair
         The work had woven been;
         And cups, the darlings of the eye,
         So deep is their vermilion dye.

         V

         "Ah me! what lovely tints are there
         Of olive green and scarlet bright,
         In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
         Green, red, and pearly white!
         This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
         Which close beside the Thorn you see,
         So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
         Is like an infant's grave in size,
         As like as like can be:
         But never, never any where,
         An infant's grave was half so fair.

         VI

         "Now would you see this aged Thorn,
         This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
         You must take care and choose your time
         The mountain when to cross.
         For oft there sits between the heap
         So like an infant's grave in size,
         And that same pond of which I spoke,
         A Woman in a scarlet cloak,
         And to herself she cries,
         'Oh misery! oh misery!
         Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

         VII

         "At all times of the day and night
         This wretched Woman thither goes;
         And she is known to every star,
         And every wind that blows;
         And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
         When the blue daylight's in the skies,
         And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
         Or frosty air is keen and still,
         And to herself she cries,
         'Oh misery! oh misery!
         Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

         VIII

         "Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
         In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
         Thus to the dreary mountain-top
         Does this poor Woman go?
         And why sits she beside the Thorn
         When the blue daylight's in the sky
         Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
         Or frosty air is keen and still,
         And wherefore does she cry? -
         wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
         Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

         IX

         "I cannot tell; I wish I could;
         For the true reason no one knows:
         But would you gladly view the spot,
         The spot to which she goes;
         The hillock like an infant's grave,
         The pond-and Thorn, so old and grey;
         Pass by her door - 'tis seldom shut -
         And, if you see her in her hut -
         Then to the spot away!
         I never heard of such as dare
         Approach the spot when she is there."

         X

         "But wherefore to the mountain-top
         Can this unhappy Woman go?
         Whatever star is in the skies,
         Whatever wind may blow?"
         "Full twenty years are past and gone
         Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
         Gave with a maiden's true good-will
         Her company to Stephen Hill;
         And she was blithe and gay,
         While friends and kindred all approved
         Of him whom tenderly she loved.

         XI

         "And they had fixed the wedding day,
         The morning that must wed them both;
         But Stephen to another Maid
         Had sworn another oath;
         And, with this other Maid, to church
         Unthinking Stephen went -
         Poor Martha! on that woeful day
         A pang of pitiless dismay
         Into her soul was sent;
         A fire was kindled in her breast,
         Which might not burn itself to rest.

         XII

         "They say, full six months after this,
         While yet the summer leaves were green,
         She to the mountain-top would go,
         And there was often seen.
         What could she seek? - or wish to hide?
         Her state to any eye was plain;
         She was with child, and she was mad;
         Yet often was she sober sad
         From her exceeding pain.
         guilty Father-would that death
         Had saved him from that breach of faith!

         XIII

         "Sad case for such a brain to hold
         Communion with a stirring child!
         Sad case, as you may think, for one
         Who had a brain so wild!
         Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,
         And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
         Held that the unborn infant wrought
         About its mother's heart, and brought
         Her senses back again:
         And, when at last her time drew near,
         Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

         XIV

         "More know I not, I wish I did,
         And it should all be told to you;
         For what became of this poor child
         No mortal ever knew;
         Nay-if a child to her was born
         No earthly tongue could ever tell;
         And if 'twas born alive or dead,
         Far less could this with proof be said;
         But some remember well,
         That Martha Ray about this time
         Would up the mountain often climb.

         XV

         "And all that winter, when at night
         The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
         Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
         The churchyard path to seek:
         For many a time and oft were heard
         Cries coming from the mountain head:
         Some plainly living voices were;
         And others, I've heard many swear,
         Were voices of the dead:
         I cannot think, whate'er they say,
         They had to do with Martha Ray.

         XVI

         "But that she goes to this old Thorn,
         The Thorn which I described to you,
         And there sits in a scarlet cloak
         I will be sworn is true.
         For one day with my telescope,
         To view the ocean wide and bright,
         When to this country first I came,
         Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
         I climbed the mountain's height: -
         A storm came on, and I could see
         No object higher than my knee.

         XVII

         "'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
         No screen, no fence could I discover;
         And then the wind! in sooth, it was
         A wind full ten times over.
         I looked around, I thought I saw
         A jutting crag, - and off I ran,
         Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
         The shelter of the crag to gain;
         And, as I am a man,
         Instead of jutting crag, I found
         A Woman seated on the ground.

         XVIII

         "I did not speak - I saw her face;
         Her face! - it was enough for me;
         I turned about and heard her cry,
         'Oh misery! oh misery!'
         And there she sits, until the moon
         Through half the clear blue sky will go;
         And, when the little breezes make
         The waters of the pond to shake,
         As all the country know,
         She shudders, and you hear her cry,
         'Oh misery! oh misery!'"

         XIX

         "But what's the Thorn? and what the pond?
         And what the hill of moss to her?
         And what the creeping breeze that comes
         The little pond to stir?"
         "I cannot tell; but some will say
         She hanged her baby on the tree;
         Some say she drowned it in the pond,
         Which is a little step beyond:
         But all and each agree,
         The little Babe was buried there,
         Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

         XX

         "I've heard, the moss is spotted red
         With drops of that poor infant's blood;
         But kill a new-born infant thus,
         I do not think she could!
         Some say, if to the pond you go,
         And fix on it a steady view,
         The shadow of a babe you trace,
         A baby and a baby's face,
         And that it looks at you;
         Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
         The baby looks at you again.

         XXI

         "And some had sworn an oath that she
         Should be to public justice brought;
         And for the little infant's bones
         With spades they would have sought.
         But instantly the hill of moss
         Before their eyes began to stir!
         And, for full fifty yards around,
         The grass - it shook upon the ground!
         Yet all do still aver
         The little Babe lies buried there,
         Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

         XXII

         "I cannot tell how this may be,
         But plain it is the Thorn is bound
         With heavy tufts of moss that strive
         To drag it to the ground;
         And this I know, full many a time,
         When she was on the mountain high,
         By day, and in the silent night,
         When all the stars shone clear and bright,
         That I have heard her cry,
         'Oh misery! oh misery!
         Oh woe is me! oh misery!'"

        [ . ]

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        THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

         I

         In distant countries have I been,
         And yet I have not often seen
         A healthy man, a man full grown,
         Weep in the public roads, alone.
         But such a one, on English ground,
         And in the broad highway, I met;
         Along the broad highway he came,
         His cheeks with tears were wet:
         Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
         And in his arms a Lamb he had.

         II

         He saw me, and he turned aside,
         As if he wished himself to hide:
         And with his coat did then essay
         To wipe those briny tears away.
         I followed him, and said, "My friend,
         What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
         - "Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
         He makes my tears to flow.
         To-day I fetched him from the rock;
         He is the last of all my flock.

         III

         "When I was young, a single man,
         And after youthful follies ran,
         Though little given to care and thought,
         Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
         And other sheep from her I raised,
         As healthy sheep as you might see;
         And then I married, and was rich
         As I could wish to be;
         Of sheep I numbered a full score,
         And every year increased my store.

         IV

         "Year after year my stock it grew;
         And from this one, this single ewe,
         Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
         As fine a flock as ever grazed!
         Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
         They throve, and we at home did thrive:
         - This lusty Lamb of all my store
         Is all that is alive;
         And now I care not if we die,
         And perish all of poverty.

         V

         "Six Children, Sir! had I to feed:
         Hard labour in a time of need!
         My pride was tamed, and in our grief
         I of the Parish asked relief.
         They said, I was a wealthy man;
         My sheep upon the uplands fed,
         And it was fit that thence I took
         Whereof to buy us bread.
         'Do this: how can we give to you,'
         They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

         VI

         "I sold a sheep, as they had said,
         And bought my little children bread,
         And they were healthy with their food
         For me-it never did me good.
         A woeful time it was for me,
         To see the end of all my gains,
         The pretty flock which I had reared
         With all my care and pains,
         To see it melt like snow away -
         For me it was a woeful day.

         VII

         "Another still! and still another!
         A little lamb, and then its mother!
         It was a vein that never stopped -
         Like blood drops from my heart they dropped.
         'Till thirty were not left alive
         They dwindled, dwindled, one by one
         And I may say, that many a time
         I wished they all were gone -
         Reckless of what might come at last
         Were but the bitter struggle past.

         VIII

         "To wicked deeds I was inclined,
         And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
         And every man I chanced to see,
         I thought he knew some ill of me:
         No peace, no comfort could I find,
         No ease, within doors or without;
         And, crazily and wearily
         I went my work about;
         And oft was moved to flee from home,
         And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

         IX

         "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me
         As dear as my own children be;
         For daily with my growing store
         I loved my children more and more.
         Alas! it was an evil time;
         God cursed me in my sore distress;
         I prayed, yet every day I thought
         I loved my children less;
         And every week, and every day,
         My flock it seemed to melt away.

         X

         "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
         From ten to five, from five to three,
         A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; -
         And then at last from three to two;
         And, of my fifty, yesterday
         I had but only one:
         And here it lies upon my arm,
         Alas! and I have none; -
         To-day I fetched it from the rock;
         It is the last of all my flock."

         [ . ]

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        THE MAD MOTHER

         I

         Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
         The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
         Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
         And she came far from over-the main.
         She has a baby on her arm,
         Or else she were alone:
         And underneath the hay-stack warm,
         And on the greenwood stone,
         She talked and sung the woods among,
         And it was in the English tongue.

         II

         "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
         But nay, my heart is far too glad;
         And I am happy when I sing
         Full many a sad and doleful thing:
         Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
         I pray thee have no fear of me;
         But safe as in a cradle, here,
         My lovely baby! thou shall be:
         To thee I know too much I owe;
         I cannot work thee any woe.

         III

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

         IV

         "Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
         It cools my blood; it cools my brain:
         Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
         Draw from my heart the pain away.
         Oh! press me with thy little hand;
         It loosens something at my chest;
         About that tight and deadly band
         I feel thy little fingers prest.
         The breeze I see is in the tree:
         It comes to cool my babe and me.

         V

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

         VI

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

         VII

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

         VIII

         "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
         I am thy father's wedded wife;
         And underneath the spreading tree
         We two will live in honesty.
         If his sweet boy he could forsake,
         With me he never would have stayed:
         From him no harm my babe can take;
         But he, poor man! is wretched made;
         And every day we two will pray
         For him that's gone and far away.

         IX

         "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
         I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
         My little babe! thy lips are still,
         And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
         - Where art thou gone, my own dear child?
         What wicked looks are those I see?
         Alas! alas! that look so wild,
         It never, never came from me:
         If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
         Then I must be for ever sad.

         X

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

         [ . ]

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         , ".

        THE IDIOT BOY

         Tis eight o'clock, - a clear March night,
         The moon is up, - the sky is blue,
         The owlet, in the moonlight air,
         Shouts from nobody knows where;
         He lengthens out his lonely shout,
         Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

         - Why bustle thus about your door,
         What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
         Why are you in this mighty fret?
         And why on horseback have you set
         Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?

         Scarcely a soul is out of bed;
         Good Betty, put him down again;
         His lips with joy they burr at you;
         But, Betty! what has he to do
         With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

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

         There's not a house within a mile,
         No hand to help them in distress;
         Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
         And sorely puzzled are the twain,
         For what she ails they cannot guess.

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

         And Betty from the lane has fetched
         Her Pony, that is mild and good;
         Whether he be in joy or pain,
         Feeding at will along the lane,
         Or bringing faggots from the wood.

         And he is all in travelling trim, -
         And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
         Has on the well-girt saddle set
         (The like was never heard of yet)
         Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

         And he must post without delay
         Across the bridge and through the dale,
         And by the church, and o'er the down,
         To bring a Doctor from the town,
         Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

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

         And Betty o'er and o'er has told
         The Boy, who is her best delight,
         Both what to follow, what to shun,
         What do, and what to leave undone,
         How turn to left, and how to right.

         And Betty's most especial charge,
         Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
         Come home again, nor stop at all, -
         Come home again, whate'er befall,
         My Johnny, do, I pray you do."

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

         And now that Johnny is just going,
         Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
         She gently pats the Pony's side,
         On which her Idiot Boy must ride,
         And seems no longer in a hurry.

         But when the Pony moved his legs,
         Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
         For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
         For joy his head and heels are idle,
         He's idle all for very joy.

         And while the Pony moves his legs,
         In Johnny's left hand you may see
         The green bough motionless and dead:
         The Moon that shines above his head
         Is not more still and mute than he.

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

         And while the Mother, at the door,
         Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows,
         Proud of herself, and proud of him,
         She sees him in his travelling trim,
         How quietly her Johnny goes.

         The silence of her Idiot Boy,
         What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
         He's at the guide-post-he turns right;
         She watches till he's out of sight,
         And Betty will not then depart.

         Burr, burr - now Johnny's lips they burr,
         As loud as any mill, or near it;
         Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
         And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
         And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

         Away she hies to Susan Gale:
         Her Messenger's in merry tune;
         The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
         And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,
         As on he goes beneath the moon.

         His steed and he right well agree;
         For of this Pony there's a rumour,
         That, should he lose his eyes and ears,
         And should he live a thousand years,
         He never will be out of humour.

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

         So through the moonlight lanes they go,
         And far into the moonlight dale,
         And by the church, and o'er the down,
         To bring a Doctor from the town,
         To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

         And Betty, now at Susan's side,
         Is in the middle of her story,
         What speedy help her Boy will bring,
         With many a most diverting thing,
         Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

         And Betty, still at Susan's side,
         By this time is not quite so flurried:
         Demure with porringer and plate
         She sits, as if in Susan's fate
         Her life and soul were buried.

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

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

         Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
         "As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
         Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
         They'll both be here-'tis almost ten -
         Both will be here before eleven."

         Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
         The clock gives warning for eleven;
         'Tis on the stroke-"He must be near,"
         Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here,
         As sure as there's a moon in heaven."

         The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
         And Johnny is not yet in sight:
         - The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
         But Betty is not quite at ease;
         And Susan has a dreadful night.

         And Betty, half an hour ago,
         On Johnny vile reflections cast:
         "A little idle sauntering Thing!"
         With other names, an endless string;
         But now that time is gone and past.

         And Betty's drooping at the heart,
         That happy time all past and gone,
         "How can it be he is so late?
         The Doctor, he has made him wait;
         Susan! they'll both be here anon."

         And Susan's growing worse and worse,
         And Betty's in a sad quandary ;
         And then there's nobody to say
         If she must go, or she must stay!
         - She's in a sad quandary .

         The clock is on the stroke of one;
         But neither Doctor nor his Guide
         Appears along the moonlight road;
         There's neither horse nor man abroad,
         And Betty's still at Susan's side.

         And Susan now begins to fear
         Of sad mischances not a few,
         That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
         Or lost, perhaps, and never found;
         Which they must both for ever rue.

         She prefaced half a hint of this
         With, "God forbid it should be true!"
         At the first word that Susan said
         Cried Betty, rising from the bed,
         "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

         "I must be gone, I must away:
         Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
         Susan, we must take care of him,
         If he is hurt in life or limb" -
         "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

         "What can I do?" says Betty, going,
         "What can I do to ease your pain?
         Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;
         I fear you're in a dreadful way,
         But I shall soon be back again."

         "Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!
         There's nothing that can ease my pain."
         Then off she hies; but with a prayer
         That God poor Susan's life would spare,
         Till she comes back again.

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

         In high and low, above, below,
         In great and small, in round and square,
         In tree and tower was Johnny seen,
         In bush and brake, in black and green;
         Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

         And while she crossed the bridge, there came
         A thought with which her heart is sore -
         Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
         To hunt the moon within the brook,
         And never will be heard of more.

         Now is she high upon the down,
         Alone amid a prospect wide;
         There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
         Among the fern or in the gorse;
         There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.

         "O saints! what is become of him?
         Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
         Where he will stay till he is dead;
         Or, sadly he has been misled,
         And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.

         "Or him that wicked Pony's carried
         To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
         Or in the castle he's pursuing
         Among the ghosts his own undoing;
         Or playing with the waterfall."

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

         Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
         The Doctor's self could hardly spare:
         Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
         Even he, of cattle the most mild,
         The Pony had his share.

         But now she's fairly in the town,
         And to the Doctor's door she hies;
         Tis silence all on every side;
         The town so long, the town so wide,
         Is silent as the skies.

         And now she's at the Doctor's door,
         She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
         The Doctor at the casement shows
         His glimmering eyes that peep and doze!
         And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

         "O Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?"
         "I'm here, what is't you want with me?"
         "O Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,
         And I have lost my poor dear Boy,
         You know him-him you often see;

         "He's not so wise as some folks be:"
         "The devil take his wisdom!" said
         The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
         "What, Woman! should I know of him?"
         And, grumbling, he went back to bed!

         "O woe is me! woe is me!
         Here will I die; here will I die;
         I thought to find my lost one here,
         But he is neither far nor near,
         Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"

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

         Then up along the town she hies,
         No wonder if her senses fail;
         This piteous news so much it shocked her,
         She quite forgot to send the Doctor,
         To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

         And now she's high upon the down,
         And she can see a mile of road:
         "O cruel! I'm almost threescore;
         Such night as this was ne'er before,
         There's not a single soul abroad."

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

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

         Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
         Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
         A green-grown pond she just has past,
         And from the brink she hurries fast,
         Lest she should drown herself therein.

         And now she sits her down and weeps;
         Such tears she never shed before;
         "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
         Oh carry back my Idiot Boy!
         And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

         A thought is come into her head:
         The Pony he is mild and good,
         And we have always used him well;
         Perhaps he's gone along the dell,
         And carried Johnny to the wood.

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

         Reader! now that I might tell
         What Johnny and his Horse are doing
         What they've been doing all this time,
         Oh could I put it into rhyme,
         A most delightful tale pursuing!

         Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
         He with his Pony now doth roam
         The cliffs and peaks so high that arc,
         To lay his hands upon a star,
         And in his pocket bring it home.

         Perhaps he's turned himself about,
         His face unto his horse's tail,
         And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
         All silent as a horseman-ghost,
         He travels slowly down the vale.

         And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep,
         A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
         Yon valley, now so trim and green,
         In five months' time, should he be seen,
         A desert wilderness will be!

         Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
         And like the very soul of evil,
         He's galloping away, away,
         And so will gallop on for aye,
         The bane of all that dread the devil!

         I to the Muses have been bound
         These fourteen years, by strong indentures:
         gentle Muses! let me tell
         But half of what to him befell;
         He surely met with strange adventures.
         gentle Muses! is this kind?

         Why will ye thus my suit repel?
         Why of your further aid bereave me?
         And can ye thus unfriended leave me
         Ye Muses! whom I love so well.

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

         Unto his horse-there feeding free,
         He seems, I think, the rein to give;
         Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
         Of such we in romances read:
         - 'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

         And that's the very Pony, too!
         Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
         She hardly can sustain her fears;
         The roaring waterfall she hears,
         And cannot find her Idiot Boy.

         Your Pony's worth his weight in gold:
         Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
         She's coming from among the trees,
         And now all full in view she sees
         Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

         And Betty sees the Pony too:
         Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
         It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
         Tis he whom you so long have lost,
         He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

         She looks again - her arms are up -
         She screams - she cannot move for joy;
         She darts, as with a torrent's force,
         She almost has o'erturned the Horse,
         And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

         And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
         Whether in cunning or in joy
         I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
         Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs
         To hear again her Idiot Boy.

         And now she's at the Pony's tail,
         And now is at the Pony's head, -
         On that side now, and now on this;
         And, almost stifled with her bliss,
         A few sad tears does Betty shed.

         She kisses o'er and o'er again
         Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
         She's happy here, is happy there,
         She is uneasy every where;
         Her limbs are all alive with joy.

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

         "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
         You've done your best, and that is all:"
         She took the reins, when this was said,
         And gently turned the Pony's head
         From the loud waterfall.

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

         The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
         Wind slowly through the woody dale;
         And who is she, betimes abroad,
         That hobbles up the steep rough road?
         Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

         Long time lay Susan lost in thought;
         And many dreadful fears beset her,
         Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
         And, as her mind grew worse and worse,
         Her body - it grew better.

         She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
         On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
         Point after point did she discuss;
         And, while her mind was fighting thus,
         Her body still grew better.

         "Alas! what is become of them?
         These fears can never be endured;
         I'll to the wood." - The word scarce said,
         Did Susan rise up from her bed,
         As if by magic cured.

         Away she goes up hill and down,
         And to the wood at length is come;
         She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
         Oh me! it is a merry meeting
         As ever was in Christendom.

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

         For while they all were travelling home,
         Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do,
         Where all this long night you have been,
         What you have heard, what you have seen:
         And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."

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

         And thus, to Betty's question, he
         Made answer, like a traveller bold,
         (His very words I give to you,)
         "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
         And the sun did shine so cold!"
         - Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
         And that was all his travel's story.

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        LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING

         How richly glows the water's breast
         Before us, tinged with evening hues,
         While, facing thus the crimson west,
         The boat her silent course pursues!
         And see how dark the backward stream!
         A little moment past so smiling!
         And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
         Some other loiterers beguiling.

         Such views the youthful Bard allure;
         But, heedless of the following gloom,
         He deems their colours shall endure
         Till peace go with him to the tomb.
         - And let him nurse his fond deceit,
         And what if he must die in sorrow!
         Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
         Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

         Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
         Thames! that other bards may see
         As lovely visions by thy side
         As now, fair river! come to me.
         glide, fair stream! for ever so,
         Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
         Till all our minds for ever flow
         As thy deep waters now are flowing.

         Vain thought! - Yet be as now thou art,
         That in thy waters may be seen
         The image of a poet's heart,
         How bright, how solemn, how serene!
         Such as did once the Poet bless,
         Who murmuring here a later ditty,
         Could find no refuge from distress
         But in the milder grief of pity.

         Now let us, as we float along,
         For him suspend the dashing oar;
         And pray that never child of song
         May know that Poet's sorrows more.
         How calm! how still! the only sound,
         The dripping of the oar suspended!
         - The evening darkness gathers round
         By virtue's holiest Powers attended.

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        EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

         "Why, William, on that old grey stone,
         Thus for the length of half a day,
         Why, William, sit you thus alone,
         And dream your time away?

         "Where are your books? - that light bequeathed
         To Beings else forlorn and blind!
         Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
         From dead men to their kind.

         "You look round on your Mother Earth,
         As if she for no purpose bore you;
         As if you were her first-born birth,
         And none had lived before you!"

         One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
         When life was sweet, I knew not why,
         To me my good friend Matthew spake,
         And thus I made reply:

         "The eye - it cannot choose but see;
         We cannot bid the ear be still;
         Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
         Against or with our will.

         "Nor less I deem that there are Powers
         Which of themselves our minds impress;
         That we can feed this mind of ours
         In a wise passiveness.

         "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
         Of things for ever speaking,
         That nothing of itself will come,
         But we must still be seeking?

         "- Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
         Conversing as I may,
         I sit upon this old grey stone,
         And dream my time away."

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        THE TABLES TURNED, AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT

         Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
         Or surely you'll grow double:
         Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
         Why all this toil and trouble?

         The sun, above the mountain's head,
         A freshening lustre mellow
         Through all the long green fields has spread,
         His first sweet evening yellow.

         Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
         Come, hear the woodland linnet,
         How sweet his music! on my life,
         There's more of wisdom in it.

         And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
         He, too, is no mean preacher
         Come forth into the light of things,
         Let Nature be your teacher.

         She has a world of ready wealth,
         Our minds and hearts to bless -
         Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
         Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

         One impulse from a vernal wood
         May teach you more of man,
         Of moral evil and of good,
         Than all the sages can.

         Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
         Our meddling intellect
         Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: -
         We murder to dissect.

         Enough of Science and of Art;
         Close up those barren leaves;
         Come forth, and bring with you a heart
         That watches and receives.

        Ѩ
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        OLD MAN TRAVELLING

        ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY

        A Sketch

         The little hedgerow birds,
         That peck along the roads, regard him not.
         He travels on, and in his face, his step,
         His gait, is one expression: every limb,
         His look and bending figure, all bespeak
         A man who does not move with pain, but moves
         With thought. - He is insensibly subdued
         To settled quiet: he is one by whom
         All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
         Long patience hath such mild composure given,
         That patience now doth seem a thing of which
         He hath no need. He is by nature led
         To peace so perfect that the young behold
         With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
         I asked him whither he was bound, and what
         The object of his journey; he replied
         "Sir! I am going many miles to take
         A last leave of my son, a mariner,
         Who from a sea-fight has been brought to Falmouth,
         And there is dying in a hospital."

        
        
        [ . ]

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        THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

        When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions, he is left behind, covered over with deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel, if the situation of the place with afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he be unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the desert; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other tribes of Indians. The females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work Heame's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean . In the high northern latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the northern lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise, as alluded to in the following poem.

         I

         Before I see another day,
         Oh let my body die away!
         In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
         The stars, they were among my dreams;
         In rustling conflict through the skies,
         I heard, I saw the flashes drive,
         And yet they are upon my eyes,
         And yet I am alive;
         Before I see another day,
         Oh let my body die away!

         II

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

         III

         Alas! ye might have dragged me on
         Another day, a single one!
         Too soon I yielded to despair;
         Why did ye listen to my prayer?
         When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;
         And oh, how grievously I rue,
         That, afterwards, a little longer,
         My friends, I did not follow you!
         For strong and without pain I lay,
         Dear friends, when ye were gone away.

         IV

         My Child! they gave thee to another,
         A woman who was not thy mother.
         When from my arms my Babe they took,
         On me how strangely did he look!
         Through his whole body something ran,
         A most strange working did I see;
         - As if he strove to be a man,
         That he might pull the sledge for me:
         And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
         Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

         V

         My little joy! my little pride!
         In two days more I must have died.
         Then do not weep and grieve for me;
         I feel I must have died with thee.
         O wind, that o'er my head art flying
         The way my friends their course did bend,
         I should not feel the pain of dying,
         Could I with thee a message send;
         Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
         For I had many things to say.

         VI

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

         VII

         Young as I am, my course is run,
         I shall not see another sun;
         I cannot lift my limbs to know
         If they have any life or no.
         My poor forsaken Child, if I
         For once could have thee close to me.
         With happy heart I then would die,
         And my last thought would happy be;
         But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
         Nor shall I see another day.

         [ . ]

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        LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR

        JULY 13, 1798

         Five years have past; five summers, with the length
         Of five long winters! and again I hear
         These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
         With a soft inland murmur. - Once again
         Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
         That on a wild secluded scene impress
         Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
         The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
         The day is come when I again repose
         Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
         These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
         Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
         Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
         'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
         These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
         Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
         Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
         Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
         With some uncertain notice, as might seem
         Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
         Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
         The Hermit sits alone.
         These beauteous forms,
         Through a long absence, have not been to me
         As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
         But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
         Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
         In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
         Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
         And passing even into my purer mind,
         With tranquil restoration:-feelings too
         Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
         As have no slight or trivial influence
         On that best portion of a good man's life,
         His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
         Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
         To them I may have owed another gift,
         Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
         In which the burthen of the mystery,
         In which the heavy and the weary weight
         Of all this unintelligible world,
         Is lightened: - that serene and blessed mood,
         In which the affections gently lead us on, -
         Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
         And even the motion of our human blood
         Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
         In body, and become a living soul:
         While with an eye made quiet by the power
         Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
         We see into the life of things.
         If this
         Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft -
         In darkness and amid the many shapes
         Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
         Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
         Have hung upon the beatings of my heart -
         How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
         O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
         How often has my spirit turned to thee!
         And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thoughts
         With many recognitions dim and faint,
         And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
         The picture of the mind revives again:
         While here I stand, not only with the sense
         Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
         That in this moment there is life and food
         For future years. And so I dare to hope,
         Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
         1 came among these hills; when like a roe
         I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
         Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
         Wherever nature led; more like a man
         Flying from something that he dreads, than one
         Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
         (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
         And their glad animal movements all gone by)
         To me was all in all. - I cannot paint
         What then I was. The sounding cataract
         Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
         The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
         Their colours and their forms, were then to me
         An appetite; a feeling and a love,
         That had no need of a remoter charm,
         By thought supplied, nor any interest
         Unborrowed from the eye. - That time is past,
         And all its aching joys are now no more,
         And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
         Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
         Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
         Abundant recompence. For I have learned
         To look on nature, not as in the hour
         Of thoughtless youth; but hearing often-times
         The still, sad music of humanity,
         Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
         To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
         A presence that disturbs me with the joy
         Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
         Of something far more deeply interfused,
         Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
         And the round ocean and the living air,
         And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
         A motion and a spirit, that impels
         All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
         And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
         A lover of the meadows and the woods,
         And mountains; and of all that we behold
         From this green earth; of all the mighty world
         Of eye, and ear, - both what they half create,
         And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
         In nature and the language of the sense,
         The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
         The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
         Of all my moral being.
         Nor perchance,
         If I were not thus taught, should I the more
         Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
         For thou art with me here upon the banks
         Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
         My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
         The language of my former heart, and read
         My former pleasures in the shooting lights
         Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
         May I behold in thee what I was once,
         My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
         Knowing that Nature never did betray
         The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
         Through all the years of this our life, to lead
         From joy to joy: for she can so inform
         The mind that is within us, so impress
         With quietness and beauty, and so feed
         With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
         Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
         Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
         The dreary intercourse of daily life,
         Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
         Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
         Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
         Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
         And let the misty mountain-winds be free
         To blow against thee: and, in after years,
         When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
         Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
         Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms.
         Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
         For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
         If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
         Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
         Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
         And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance -
         If I should be where I no more can hear
         Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
         Of past existence - wilt thou then forget
         That on the banks of this delightful stream
         We stood together; and that I, so long
         A worshipper of Nature, hither came
         Unwearied in that service: rather say
         With warmer love - oh! with far deeper zeal
         Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
         That after many wanderings, many years
         Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
         And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
         More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

        , [ . ]

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        From "LYRICAL BALLADS, AND OTHER POEMS"
         " "

        THERE WAS A BOY

         There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
         And islands of Winander! - many a time,
         At evening, when the earliest stars began
         To move along the edges of the hills,
         Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
         Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
         And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
         Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
         Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
         Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
         That they might answer him. - And they would shout
         Across the watery vale, and shout again,
         Responsive to his call, - with quivering peals;
         And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
         Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
         Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
         Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
         Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
         Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
         Has carried far into his heart the voice
         Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
         Would enter unawares into his mind
         With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
         Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
         Into the bosom of the steady lake.

         This boy was taken from his mates, and died
         In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
         Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
         Where he was born and bred: the church-yard hangs
         Upon a slope above the village-school;
         And, through that church-yard when my way has led
         On summer-evenings, I believe, that there
         A long half-hour together I have stood
         Mute-looking at the grave in which he lies!

        [ . ]

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        LUCY

         I

         Strange fits of passion have I known:
         And I will dare to tell,
         But in the Lover's ear alone,
         What once to me befell.

         When she I loved looked every day
         Fresh as a rose in June,
         I to her cottage bent my way,
         Beneath an evening-moon.

         Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
         All over the wide lea;
         With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
         Those paths so clear to me.

         And now we reached the orchard-plot;
         And, as we climbed the hill,
         The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
         Came near, and nearer still.

         In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
         Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
         And all the while my eyes I kept
         On the descending moon.

         My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
         He raised, and never stopped:
         When down behind the cottage roof,
         At once, the bright moon dropped.

         What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
         Into a Lover's head!
         "O mercy!" to myself I cried,
         "If Lucy should be dead!"

         II

         She dwelt among the 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 lived unknown, and few could know
         When Lucy ceased to be;
         But she is in her grave, and, oh,
         The difference to me!

         III

         I travelled among unknown men,
         In lands beyond the sea;
         Nor, England! did I know till then
         What love I bore to thee.

         Tis past, that melancholy dream!
         Nor will I quit thy shore
         A second time; for still I seem
         To love thee more and more.

         Among thy mountains did I feel
         The joy of my desire;
         And she I cherished turned her wheel
         Beside an English fire.

         Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
         The bowers where Lucy played;
         And thine too is the last green field
         That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

         V

         A slumber did my spirit seal;
         I had no human fears:
         She seemed a thing that could not feel
         The touch of earthly years.

         No motion has she now, no force;
         She neither hears nor sees;
         Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
         With rocks, and stones, and trees.

        

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        LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE

         Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
         And, when I crossed the wild,
         I chanced to see at break of day
         The solitary child.

         No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
         She dwelt on a wide 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 through 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 raised his hook,
         And snapped 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 powdery snow,
         That rises up like smoke.

         The storm came on before its time:
         She wandered up and down;
         And many a hill did Lucy climb:
         But never reached 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 overlooked the moor;
         And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
         A furlong from their door.

         They wept-and, turning homeward, cried,
         "In heaven we all shall meet;"
         - When in the snow the mother spied
         The print of Lucy's feet.

         Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
         They tracked the footmarks small;
         And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
         And by the long stone-wall;

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

         They followed from the snowy bank
         Those 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.

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        THE BROTHERS

         "These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
         A profitable life: some glance along,
         Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
         And they were butterflies to wheel about
         Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
         Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
         Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
         Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
         Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
         Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
         But, for that moping Son of Idleness,
         Why, can he tarry yonder? - In our church yard
         Is neither epitaph nor monument,
         Tombstone nor name-only the turf we tread
         And a few natural graves."
         To Jane, his wife,
         Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
         It was a July evening; and he sate
         Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves
         Of his old cottage, - as it chanced, that day,
         Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
         His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,
         While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,
         He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
         Who, in the open air, with due accord
         Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,
         Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field
         In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,
         Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,
         While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
         Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
         Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
         Of carded wool which the old man had piled
         He laid his implements with gentle care,
         Each in the other locked; and, down the path
         That from his cottage to the churchyard led,
         He took his way, impatient to accost
         The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.
         'Twas one well known to him in former days,
         A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year
         Had left that calling, tempted to entrust
         His expectations to the fickle winds
         And perilous waters; with the mariners
         A fellow-mariner; - and so had fared
         Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
         Among the mountains, and he in his heart
         Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
         Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
         The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds
         Of caves and trees: - and, when the regular wind
         Between the tropics filled the steady sail,
         And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,
         Lengthening invisibly its weary line
         Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours
         Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
         Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
         And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam
         Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
         In union with the employment of his heart,
         He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
         Even with the organs of his bodily eye,
         Below him, in the bosom of the deep,
         Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed
         On verdant hills-with dwellings among trees,
         And shepherds clad in the same country grey
         Which he himself had worn.
         And now, at last,
         From perils manifold, with some small wealth
         Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,
         To his paternal home he is returned,
         With a determined purpose to resume
         The life he had lived there; both for the sake
         Of many darling pleasures, and the love
         Which to an only brother he has borne
         In all his hardships, since that happy time
         When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two
         Were brother-shepherds on their native hills.
         - They were the last of all their race: and now,
         When Leonard had approached his home, his heart
         Failed in him; and, not venturing to enquire
         Tidings of one so long and dearly loved,
         He to the solitary churchyard turned;
         That, as he knew in what particular spot
         His family were laid, he thence might learn
         If still his Brother lived, or to the file
         Another grave was added. - He had found,
         Another grave, - near which a full half-hour
         He had remained; but, as he gazed, there grew
         Such a confusion in his memory,
         That he began to doubt; and even to hope
         That he had seen this heap of turf before, -
         That it was not another grave; but one
         He had forgotten. He had lost his path,
         As up the vale, that afternoon, he walked
         Through fields which once bad been well known to him:
         And oh what joy this recollection now
         Sent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,
         And, looking round, imagined that he saw
         Strange alteration wrought on every side
         Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks,
         And everlasting hills themselves were changed.
         By this the Priest, who down the field had come,
         Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gate
         Stopped short, - and thence, at leisure, limb by limb
         Perused him with a gay complacency.
         Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,
         Tis one of those who needs must leave the path
         Of the world's business to go wild alone:
         His arms have a perpetual holiday;
         The happy man will creep about the fields,
         Following his fancies by the hour, to bring
         Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles
         Into his face, until the setting sun
         Write fool upon his forehead. - Planted thus
         Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate
         Of this rude churchyard, till the stars appeared
         The good Man might have communed with himself,
         But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,
         Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,
         And, after greetings interchanged, and given
         By Leonard to the Vicar as to one
         Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued.

         Leonard.

         You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:
         Your years make up one peaceful family;
         And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come
         And welcome gone, they are so like each other,
         They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral
         Comes to mis churchyard once in eighteen months;
         And yet, some changes must take place among you:
         And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,
         Can trace the finger of mortality,
         And see, that with our threescore years and ten
         We are not all that perish. - I remember,
         (For many years ago I passed this road)
         There was a foot-way all along the fields
         By the brook-side - 'tis gone - and that dark cleft!
         To me it does not seem to wear the face
         Which then it had!

         Priest.

         Nay, Sir, for aught I know,
         That chasm is much the same -

         Leonard.

         But, surely, yonder -

         Priest.

         Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend
         That does not play you false. - On that tall pike
         (It is the loneliest place of all these hills)
         There were two springs which bubbled side by side,
         As if they had been made that they might be
         Companions for each other: the huge crag
         Was rent with lightning-one hath disappeared;
         The other, left behind, is flowing still.
         For accidents aud changes such as these,
         We want not store of them; - a water-spout
         Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast
         For folks that wander up and down like you,
         To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff
         One roaring cataract! a sharp May-storm
         Will come with loads of January snow,
         And in one night send twenty score of sheep
         To feed the ravens; or a shepherd dies
         By some untoward death among the rocks:
         The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;
         A wood is felled:-and then for our own homes!
         A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,
         A daughter sent to service, a web spun,
         The old house-clock is decked with a new face;
         And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates
         To chronicle the time, we all have here
         A pair of diaries, - one serving, Sir,
         For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side -
         Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,
         Commend me to these valleys!

         Leonard.

         Yet your Churchyard
         Seems, if such freedom may be used with you,
         To say that you are heedless of the past:
         An orphan could not find his mother's grave:
         Here's neither head-nor foot stone, plate of brass,
         Cross-bones nor skull, - type of our earthly state
         Nor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home
         Is but a fellow to that pasture-field.

         Priest.

         Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!
         The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread
         If every English churchyard were like ours;
         Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:
         We have no need of names and epitaphs;
         We talk about the dead by our firesides.
         And then, for our immortal part! we want
         No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:
         The thought of death sits easy on the man
         Who has been bom and dies among the mountains.

         Leonard.

         Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts
         Possess a kind of second life: no doubt
         You, Sir, could help me to the history
         Of half these graves?

         Priest.

         For eight-score winters past,
         With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,
         Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,
         If you were seated at my chimney's nook,
         By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,
         We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;
         Yet all in the broad highway of the world.
         Now there's a grave - your foot is half upon it, -
         It looks just like the rest; and yet that man
         Died broken-hearted.

         Leonard.

         'Tis a common case.
         We'll take another: who is he that lies
         Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?
         It touches on that piece of native rock
         Left in the churchyard wall.

         Priest.

         That's Walter Ewbank.
         He had as white a head and fresh a cheek
         As ever were produced by youth and age
         Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore.
         Through five long generations had the heart
         Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds
         Of their inheritance, that single cottage -
         You see it yonder! and those few green fields.
         They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,
         Each struggled, and each yielded as before
         A little - yet a little, - and old Walter,
         They left to him the family heart, and land
         With other burthens than the crop it bore.
         Year after year the old man still kept up
         A cheerful mind, - and buffeted with bond,
         Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,
         And went into his grave before his time.
         Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred him
         God only knows, but to the very last
         He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:
         His pace was never that of an old man:
         I almost see him tripping down the path
         With his two grandsons after him: - but you,
         Unless our Landlord be your host tonight,
         Have far to travel, - and on these rough paths
         Even in the longest day of midsummer -

         Leonard.

         But those two Orphans!

         Priest.

         Orphans! - Such they were -
         Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents
         Lay buried side by side as now they lie,
         The old man was a father to the boys,
         Two fathers in one father: and if tears,
         Shed when he talked of them where they were not,
         And hauntings from the infirmity of love,
         Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,
         This old Man, in the day of his old age,
         Was half a mother to them. - If you weep, Sir,
         To hear a stranger talking about strangers,
         Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!
         Ay - you may turn that way - it is a grave
         Which will bear looking at.

         Leonard.

         These boys - I hope
         They loved this good old Man? -

         Priest.

         They did - and truly:
         But that was what we almost overlooked,
         They were such darlings of each other. Yes,
         Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,
         The only kinsman near them, and though he
         Inclined to both by reason of his age,
         With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;
         They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,
         And it all went into each other's hearts.
         Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,
         Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,
         To hear, to meet them! - From their house the school
         Is distant three short miles, and in the time
         Of storm and thaw, when every watercourse
         And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed
         Crossing our roads at every hundred steps,
         Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,
         Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained
         At home, go staggering through the slippery fords,
         Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,
         On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,
         Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep,
         Their two books lying both on a dry stone,
         Upon the hither side: and once I said,
         As I remember, looking round these rocks
         And hills on which we all of us were born,
         That God who made the great book of the world
         Would bless such piety -

         Leonard.

         It may be then -

         Priest.

         Never did worthier lads break English bread:
         The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw
         With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,
         Could never keep those boys away from church,
         Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.
         Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner
         Among these rocks, and every hollow place
         That venturous foot could reach, to one or both
         Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there.
         Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;
         They played like two young ravens on the crags:
         Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well
         As many of their betters-and for Leonard!
         The very night before he went away,
         In my own house I put into his hand
         A Bible, and I'd wager house and field
         That, if he be alive, he has it yet.

         Leonard.

         It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be
         A comfort to each other -

         Priest.

         That they might
         Live to such end is what both old and young
         In this our valley all of us have wished,
         And what, for my part, I have often prayed:
         But Leonard -

         Leonard.

         Then James still is left among you!

         Priest.

         'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:
         They had an uncle; - he was at that time
         A thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:
         And, but for that same uncle, to this hour
         Leonard had never handled rope or shroud:
         For the boy loved the life which we lead here;
         And though of unripe years, a stripling only,
         His soul was knit to this his native soil.
         But, as I said, old Walter was too weak
         To strive with such a torrent; when he died,
         The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,
         A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,
         Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years: -
         Well - all was gone, and they were destitute,
         And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,
         Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.
         Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.
         If there were one among us who had heard
         That Leonard Ewbank was come home again,
         From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,
         And down the Enna, far as Egremont,
         The day would be a joyous festival;
         And those two bells of ours, which there, you see -
         Hanging in the open air - but, good Sir!
         This is sad talk - they'll never sound for him -
         Living or dead. - When last we heard of him
         He was in slavery among the Moors
         Upon the Barbary coast. - Twas not a little
         That would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,
         Before it ended in his death, the Youth
         Was sadly crossed. - Poor Leonard! when we parted,
         He took me by the hand, and said to me,
         If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,
         To live in peace upon his father's land,
         And lay his bones among us.

         Leonarnd.

         If that day
         Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;
         He would himself, no doubt, be happy then
         As any that should meet him -

         Priest.

         Happy! Sir -

         Leonard.

         You said his kindred all were in their graves,
         And that he had one Brother -

         Priest.

         That is but
         A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth
         James, though not sickly, yet was delicate;
         And Leonard being always by his side
         Had done so many offices about him,
         That, though he was not of a timid nature,
         Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy
         In him was somewhat checked, and, when his Brother
         Was gone to sea, and he was left alone,
         The little colour that he had was soon
         Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined -

         Leonard.

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

         Priest.

         Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;
         He was the child of all the dale - he lived
         Three months with one, and six months with another,
         And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:
         And many, many happy days were his.
         But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief
         His absent Brother still was at his heart.
         And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found
         (A practice till this time unknown to him)
         That often, rising from his bed at night,
         He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping
         He sought his brother Leonard. - You are moved!
         Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,
         I judged you most unkindly.

         Leonard.

         But this Youth,
         How did he die at last?

         Priest.

         One sweet May-morning,
         (It will be twelve years since when Springs returns)
         He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,
         With two or three companions, whom their course
         Of occupation led from height to height
         Under a cloudless sun-till he, at length,
         Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge
         The humour of the moment, lagged behind.
         You see yon precipice; - it wears the shape
         Of a vast building made of many crags;
         And in the midst is one particular rock
         That rises like a column from the vale,
         Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.
         Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,
         The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,
         Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the place
         On their return, they found that he was gone.
         No ill was feared; till one of them by chance
         Entering, when evening was far spent, the house
         Which at that time was James's home, there learned
         That nobody had seen him all that day:
         The morning came, and still he was unheard of:
         The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook
         Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon
         They found him at the foot of that same rock
         Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after
         I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies!

         Leonard.

         And that then is his grave! - Before his death
         You say that he saw many happy years?

         Priest.

         Ay, that he did -

         Leonard.

         And all went well with him? -

         Priest.

         If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.

         Leonard.

         And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? -

         Priest.

         Yes, long before he died, he found that time
         Is a true friend to sorrow; and unless
         His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,
         He talked about him with a cheerful love.

         Leonard.

         He could not come to an unhallowed end!

         Priest.

         Nay, God forbid! - You recollect I mentioned
         A habit which disquietude and grief
         Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured
         That, as the day was warm, he had lain down
         On the soft heath, - and, waiting for his comrades,
         He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep
         He to the margin of the precipice
         Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:
         And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth,
         Fell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think,
         His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock
         It had been caught mid-way; and there for years
         It hung; - and mouldered there.
         The Priest here ended -
         The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt
         A gushing from his heart, that took away
         The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;
         And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,
         As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, -
         And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"
         The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,
         He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating
         That Leonard would partake his homely fare:
         The other thanked him with an earnest voice;
         But added, that, the evening being calm,
         He would pursue his journey. So they parted.
         It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove
         That overhung the road: he there stopped short
         And, sitting down beneath the trees, reviewed
         All that the Priest had said: his early years
         Were with him: - his long absence, cherished hopes,
         And thoughts which had been his an hour before,
         All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,
         This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed
         A place in which he could not bear to live:
         So he relinquished all his purposes.
         He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,
         That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,
         Reminding him of what had passed between them;
         And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,
         That it was from the weakness of his heart
         He had not dared to tell him who he was.
         This done, he went on shipboard, and is now
         A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.

        [ . ]

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        MICHAEL
        A Pastoral Poem

         If from the public way you turn your steps
         Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
         You will suppose that with an upright path
         Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
         The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
         But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
         The mountains have all opened out themselves,
         And made a hidden valley of their own.
         No habitation can be seen; but they
         Who journey thither find themselves alone
         With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
         That overhead are sailing in the sky.
         It is in truth an utter solitude;
         Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
         But for one object which you might pass by
         Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
         Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
         And to that simple object appertains
         A story-unenriched with strange events,
         Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
         Or for the summer shade. It was the first
         Of those domestic tales that spake to me
         Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
         Whom I already loved; not verily
         For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
         Where was their occupation and abode.
         And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
         Careless of books, yet having felt the power
         Of Nature, by the gentle agency
         Of natural objects, led me on to feel
         For passions that were not my own, and think
         (At random and imperfectly indeed)
         On man, the heart of man, and human life.
         Therefore, although it be a history
         Homely and rude, I will relate the same
         For the delight of a few natural hearts;
         And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
         Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
         Will be my second self when I am gone.
         Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
         There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
         An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
         His bodily frame had been from youth to age
         Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
         Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
         And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
         And watchful more than ordinary men.
         Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
         Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
         When others heeded not, He heard the South
         Make subterraneous music, like the noise
         Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
         The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
         Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
         "The winds are now devising work for me!"
         And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
         The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
         Up to ths mountains: he had been alone
         Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
         That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
         So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
         And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
         That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
         Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
         Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
         The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
         He had so often climbed: which had impressed
         So many incidents upon his mind
         Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
         Which, like a book, preserved the memory
         Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
         Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
         The certainty of honourable gain;
         Those fields, those hills-what could they less? had laid
         Strong hold on his affections, were to him
         A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
         The pleasure which there is in life itself.
         His days had not been passed in singleness.
         His Helpmate was a comely matron, old -
         Though younger than himself full twenty years.
         She was a woman of a stirring life,
         Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
         Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
         That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest
         It was because the other was at work.
         The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
         An only Child, who had been born to them
         When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
         To deem that he was old, - in shepherd's phrase,
         With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
         With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
         The one of an inestimable worth,
         Made all their household. I may truly say,
         That they were as a proverb in the vale
         For endless industry. When day was gone,
         And from their occupations out of doors
         The Son and Father were come home, even then,
         Their labour did not cease; unless when all
         Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
         Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
         Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
         And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
         Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
         And his old Father both betook themselves
         To such convenient work as might employ
         Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
         Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair
         Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
         Or other implement of house or field.
         Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
         That in our ancient uncouth country style
         With huge and black projection overbrowed
         Large space beneath, as duly as the light
         Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
         An aged utensil, which had performed
         Service beyond all others of its kind.
         Early at evening did it bum-and late,
         Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
         Which, going by from year to year, had found,
         And left, the couple neither gay perhaps
         Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
         Living a life of eager industry.
         And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
         There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
         Father and Son, while far into the night
         The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
         Making the cottage through the silent hours
         Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
         This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
         And was a public symbol of the life
         That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
         Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
         Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
         High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
         And westward to the village near the lake;
         And from this constant light, so regular
         And so far seen, the House itself, by all
         Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
         Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.
         Thus living on through such a length of years,
         The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
         Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
         This son of his old age was yet more dear -
         Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
         Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all -
         Than that a child, more than all other gifts
         That earth can offer to declining man,
         Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
         And stirrings of inquietude, when they
         By tendency of nature needs must fail.
         Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
         His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
         Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
         Had done him female service, not alone
         For pastime and delight, as is the use
         Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
         To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
         His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.
         And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
         Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
         Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
         To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
         Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
         Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
         Under the large old oak, that near his door
         Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
         Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
         Thence in our rustic dialect was called
         The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
         There, while they two were sitting in the shade
         With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
         Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
         Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
         Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
         By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
         Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
         And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up
         A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
         Two steady roses that were five years old;
         Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
         With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
         With iron, making it throughout in all
         Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
         And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
         He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
         At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
         And, to his office prematurely called,
         There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
         Something between a hindrance and a help;
         And for this cause not always, I believe,
         Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
         Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
         Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
         But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
         Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
         Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
         He with his Father daily went, and they
         Were as companions, why should I relate
         That objects which the Shepherd loved before
         Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
         Feelings and emanations - things which were
         Light to the sun and music to the wind;
         And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?
         Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
         And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year
         He was his comfort and his daily hope.
         While in this sort the simple household lived
         From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
         Distressful tidings. Long before the time
         Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
         In surety for his brother's son, a man
         Of an industrious life, and ample means;
         But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
         Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
         Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
         A grievous penalty, but little less
         Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
         At the first hearing, for a moment took
         More hope out of his life than he supposed
         That any old man ever could have lost.
         As soon as he had armed himself with strength
         To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
         The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
         A portion of his patrimonial fields.
         Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
         And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
         Two evenings after he had heard the news,
         "I have been toiling more than seventy years,
         And in the open sunshine of God's love
         Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
         Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
         That I could not be quiet in my grave.
         Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
         Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
         And I have lived to be a fool at last
         To my own family. An evil man
         That was, and made an evil choice, if he
         Were false to us; and if he were not false,
         There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
         Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; - but
         Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
         When I began, my purpose was to speak
         Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
         Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
         Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
         He shall possess it, free as is the wind
         That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
         Another kinsman - he will be our friend
         In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
         Thriving in trade - and Luke to him shall go,
         And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
         He quickly will repair this loss, and then
         He may return to us. If here he stay,
         What can be done? Where every one is poor,
         What can be gained?"
         At this the old Man paused,
         And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
         Was busy, looking back into past times.
         There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
         He was a parish-boy - at the church-door
         They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
         And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
         A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
         And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
         Went up to London, found a master there,
         Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
         To go and overlook his merchandise
         Beyond the seas: where he grew wondrous rich,
         And left estates and monies to the poor,
         And, at his birth-place, built a chapel, floored
         With marble which he sent from foreign lands.
         These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
         Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
         And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
         And thus resumed: - "Well, Isabel! this scheme
         These two days, has been meat and drink to me.
         Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
         - We have enough - I wish indeed that I
         Were younger; - but this hope is a good hope.
         - Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
         Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
         To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
         - If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."
         Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
         With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
         Was restless morn and night, and all day long
         Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
         Things needful for the journey of her son.
         But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
         To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
         By Michael's side, she through the last two nights
         Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
         And when they rose at morning she could see
         That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
         She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
         Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
         We have no other Child but thee to lose
         None to remember - do not go away,
         For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
         The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
         And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
         Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
         Did she bring forth, and all together sat
         Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
         With daylight Isabel, resumed her work;
         And all the ensuing week the house appeared
         As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
         The expected letter from their kinsman came,
         With kind assurances that he would do
         His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
         To which, requests were added, that forthwith
         He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
         The letter was read over; Isabel
         Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
         Nor was there at that time on English land
         A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
         Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
         "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
         The Housewife answered, talking much of things
         Which, if at such short notice he should go,
         Would surely be forgotten. But at length
         She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
         Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
         In that deep valley, Michael had designed
         To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard
         The tidings of his melancholy loss,
         For this same purpose he had gathered up
         A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
         Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
         With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:
         And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
         And thus the old Man spake to him: - "My Son,
         To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
         I look upon thee, for thou art the same
         That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
         And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
         I will relate to thee some little part
         Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
         When thou art from me, even if I should touch
         On things thou canst not know of. - After thou
         First cam'st into the world-as oft befalls
         To new-born infants - thou didst sleep away
         Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
         Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
         And still I loved thee with increasing love.
         Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
         Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
         First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
         While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
         Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,
         And in the open fields my life was passed
         And on the mountains; else I think that thou
         Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
         But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
         As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
         Have played together, nor with me didst thou
         Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
         Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
         He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
         And said, "Nay, do not take it so - I see
         That these are things of which I need not speak.
         - Even to the utmost I have been to thee
         A kind and a good Father: and herein
         I but repay a gift which I myself
         Received at others' hands; for, though now old
         Beyond the common life of man, I still
         Remember them who loved me in my youth.
         Both of them sleep together: here they lived,
         As all their Forefathers had done; and when
         At length their time was come, they were not loth
         To give their bodies to the family mould.
         I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:
         But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
         And see so little gain from threescore years.
         These fields were burthened when they came to me;
         Till I was forty years of age, not more
         Than half of my inheritance was mine.
         I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,
         And till these three weeks past the land was free.
         - It looks as if it never could endure
         Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
         If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
         That thou should'st go."
         At this the old Man paused;
         Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
         Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
         "This was a work for us; and now, my Son,
         It is a work for me. But, lay one stone -
         Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
         Nay, Boy, be of good hope; - we both may live
         To see a better day. At eighty-four
         I still am strong and hale; - do thou thy part;
         I will do mine. - I will begin again
         With many tasks that were resigned to thee:
         Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
         Will I without thee go again, and do
         All works which I was wont to do alone,
         Before I knew thy face. - Heaven bless thee, Boy!
         Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
         With many hopes it should be so-yes-yes -
         I knew that thou could'st never have a wish
         To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me
         Only by links of love: when thou art gone,
         What will be left to us! - But, I forget
         My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
         As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
         When thou art gone away, should evil men
         Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
         And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
         And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
         And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
         May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,
         Who, being innocent, did for that cause
         Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well -
         When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
         A work which is not here: a covenant
         Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
         Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,
         And bear thy memory with me to the grave."
         The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,
         And, as his Father had requested, laid
         The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight
         The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart
         He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;
         And to the house together they returned.
         - Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming
         peace,
         Ere the night fell: - with morrow's dawn, the Boy
         Began his journey, and when he had reached
         The public way, he put on a bold face;
         And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,
         Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
         That followed him till he was out of sight.
         A good report did from their Kinsman come,
         Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy
         Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
         Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were
         throughout
         "The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
         Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
         So, many months passed on: and once again
         The Shepherd went about his daily work
         With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
         Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
         He to that valley took his way, and there
         Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began
         To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
         He in the dissolute city gave himself
         To evil courses: ignominy and shame
         Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
         To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
         There is a comfort in the strength of love;
         'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
         Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
         I have conversed with more than one who well
         Remember the old Man, and what he was
         Years after he had heard this heavy news.
         His bodily frame had been from youth to age
         Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
         He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,
         And listened to the wind; and, as before,
         Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
         And for the land, his small inheritance.
         And to that hollow dell from time to time
         Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
         His flock had need. Tis not forgotten yet
         The pity which was then in every heart
         For the old Man - and 'tis believed by all
         That many and many a day he thither went,
         And never lifted up a single stone.
         There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen
         Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,
         Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
         The length of full seven years, from time to time,
         He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,
         And left the work unfinished when he died.
         Three years, or little more, did Isabel
         Survive her Husband: at her death the estate
         Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
         The Cottage which was named the Evening Star
         Is gone - the ploughshare has been through the
         ground
         On which it stood; great changes have been
         wrought
         In all the neighbourhood: - yet the oak is left
         That grew beside their door; and the remains
         Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen
         Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.

        
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        TO JOANNA

         Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
         The time of early youth; and there you learned,
         From years of quiet industry, to love
         The living Beings by your own fireside,
         With such a strong devotion, that your heart
         Is slow to meet the sympathies of them
         Who look upon the hills with tenderness,
         And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.
         Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,
         Dwelling retired in our simplicity
         Among the woods and fields, we love you well,
         Joanna! and I guess, since you have been
         So distant from us now for two long years,
         That you will gladly listen to discourse,
         However trivial, if you thence be taught
         That they, with whom you once were happy, talk
         Familiarly of you and of old times.
         While I was seated, now some ten days past,
         Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop
         Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower,
         The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by
         Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,
         "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!
         And when will she return to us?" he paused;
         And, after short exchange of village news,
         He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,
         Reviving obsolete idolatry,
         I, like a Runic Priest, in characters
         Of formidable size had chiselled out
         Some uncouth name upon the native rock,
         Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.
         - Now, by those dear immunities of heart
         Engendered between malice and true love,
         I was not loth to be so catechised,
         And this was my reply: - "As it befell,
         One summer morning we had walked abroad
         At break of day, Joanna and myself.
         - Twas that delightful season when the broom,
         Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,
         Along the copses runs in veins of gold.
         Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;
         And when we came in front of that tall rock
         That eastward looks, I there stopped short - and stood
         Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye
         From base to summit; such delight I found
         To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower
         That intermixture of delicious hues,
         Along so vast a surface, all at once,
         In one impression, by connecting force
         Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart.
         - When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,
         Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld
         That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.
         The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,
         Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again;
         That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag
         Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,
         And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth
         A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,
         And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;
         Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky
         Carried the Lady's voice, - old Skiddaw blew
         His speaking-trumpet; - back out of the clouds
         Of Glaramara southward came the voice;
         And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.
         - Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,
         Who in the hey-day of astonishment
         Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth
         A work accomplished by the brotherhood
         Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched
         With dreams and visionary impulses
         To me alone imparted, sure I am
         That there was a loud uproar in the hills.
         And, while we both were listening, to my side
         The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished
         To shelter from some object of her fear.
         - And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons
         Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone
         Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm
         And silent morning, I sat down, and there,
         In memory of affections old and true,
         I chiselled out in those rude characters
         Joanna's name deep in the living stone: -
         And I, and all who dwell by my fireside.
         Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."

         [ . ]

        
        
        
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        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.

         Clouds that love through air to hasten,
         Ere the storm its fury stills,
         Helmet-like themselves will fasten
         On the heads of towering hills.

         What, if through the frozen centre
         Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
         Yet he has a home to enter
         In some nook of chosen ground:

         And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
         Yield him no domestic cave,
         Slumbers without sense of motion,
         Couched upon the rocking wave.

         If on windy days the Raven
         Gambol like a dancing skiff,
         Not the less she loves her haven
         In the bosom of the cliff.

         The fleet Ostrich, till day closes.
         Vagrant over desert sands,
         Brooding on her eggs reposes
         When chill night that care demands.

         Day and night my toils redouble,
         Never nearer to the goal;
         Night and day, I feel the trouble
         Of the Wanderer in my soul.

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        From "POEMS" (1807)
         "" (1807)

        POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY
        ,

        "I grieved for Buonapart e , with a vain"

         I grieved for Buonapart e , with a vain
         And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
         Of that Man's mind-what can it be? what food
         Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
         is not in battles that from youth we train
         The Governor who must be wise and good,
         And temper with the sternness of the brain
         Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
         Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
         Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
         Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
         Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
         By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
         True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

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        CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802

         Festivals have I seen that were not names:
         This is young Buonaparte's natal day,
         And his is henceforth an established sway -
         Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
         Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
         Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!
         Calais is not: and I have bent my way
         To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames
         His business as he likes. Far other show
         My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time;
         The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
         Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,
         Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
         The destiny of Man, and live in hope.

        " "[ . ]

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        ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

         Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee:
         And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
         Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
         Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty,
         She was a maiden City, bright and free;
         No guile seduced, no force could violate;
         And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
         She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
         And what if she had seen those glories fade,
         Those titles vanish, and that strength decay:
         Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
         When her long life hath reached its final day:
         Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
         Of that which once was great is passed away.

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        TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE

         Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
         Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
         Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
         Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; -
         miserable Chieftain! where and when
         Wilt thou find patience! Yet die not; do thou
         Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
         Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
         Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
         Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
         There's not a breathing of the common wind
         That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
         Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
         And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

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        SONNET WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802

         O, friend! I know not which way I must look
         For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
         To think that now our life is only drest
         For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
         Or groom! - We must run glittering like a brook
         In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
         The wealthiest man among us is the best:
         No grandeur now in nature or in book
         Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
         This is idolatry; and these we adore;
         Plain living and high thinking are no more:
         The homely beauty of the good old cause
         Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
         And pure religion breathing household laws.

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        LONDON, 1802

         Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour;
         England hath need of thee: she is a fen
         Of stagnant waters: alar, sword, and pen,
         Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower;
         Have forfeited their ancient English dower
         Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
         Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
         And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
         Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
         Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
         Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
         So didst thou travel on life's common way,
         In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
         The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

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        "Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room"

         Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
         And hermits are contented with their cells;
         And students with their pensive citadels;
         Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
         Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
         High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
         Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells;
         In truth the prison, unto which we doom
         Ourselves, no prison is; and hence for me,
         In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
         Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
         Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
         Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
         Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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        COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802

         Earth has not anything to show more fair:
         Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
         A sight so touching in its majesty:
         This City now doth, like a garment, wear
         The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
         Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
         Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
         All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
         Never did sun more beautifully steep
         In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
         Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
         The river glideth at his own sweet will:
         Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
         And all that mighty heart is lying still!

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        COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST 1802

         Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
         Star of my Country! - on the horizon's brink
         Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
         On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
         Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
         Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
         Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
         Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
         In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
         Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
         Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
         One life, one glory! - I, with many a fear
         For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
         Among men who do not love her, linger here.

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        "The world is too much with us; late and soon"

         The world is too much with us; late and soon,
         Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
         Little we see in Nature that is ours;
         We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
         This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
         The winds that will be howling at all hours,
         And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
         For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
         It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be
         A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
         So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
         Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
         Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
         Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

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        "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free"

         It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
         The holy time is quiet as a Nun
         Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
         Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
         The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea:
         Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
         And doth with his eternal motion make
         A sound like thunder - everlastingly,
         Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here.
         If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
         Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
         Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
         And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
         God being with thee when we know it not.

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        PERSONAL TALK
        

        "I am not One who much or oft delight"

         I am not One who much or oft delight
         To season my fireside with personal talk. -
         Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
         Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight:
         And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
         Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,
         These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
         Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
         Better than such discourse doth silence long,
         Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
         To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
         In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
         And listen to the flapping of the flame,
         Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

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        "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con"

         "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
         Those many records of my childish years,
         Remembrance of myself and of my peers
         Will press me down; to think of what is gone
         Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
         But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
         Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears:
         Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.
         By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost
         I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;
         So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
         A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed:
         I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed: and all
         The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

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        TO SLEEP
        (" gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee")

         O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,
         These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
         To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
         A captive never wishing to be free.
         This tiresome night, Sleep! thou art to me
         A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
         Upon a fretful rivulet, now above,
         Now on the water vexed with mockery.
         1 have no pain that calls for patience, no;
         Hence am I cross and peevish as a child;
         Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
         Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
         gentle Creature! do not use me so,
         But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

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        TO SLEEP
        ("A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by")

         A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
         One after one: the sound of rain, and bees
         Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
         Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky:
         I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
         Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
         Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
         And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
         Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay
         And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
         So do not let me wear to-night away:
         Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
         Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
         Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

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        "With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh"

         With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
         Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
         Seme lying fast at anchor in the road,
         Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
         A goodly Vessel did I then espy
         Come like a giant from a haven broad;
         And lustily along the bay she strode,
         Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.
         This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
         Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
         This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
         When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
         No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir
         On went She, and due north her journey took.

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        TO A BUTTERFLY

         Stay near me - do not take thy flight!
         A little longer stay in sight!
         Much converse do I find in thee,
         Historian of my infancy!
         Float near me; do not yet.depart!
         Dead times revive in thee:
         Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
         A solemn image to my heart,
         My father's family!

         Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,
         The time, when, in our childish plays,
         My sister Emmeline and I
         Together chased the butterfly!
         A very hunter did I rush
         Upon the prey:-with leaps and springs
         I followed on from brake to bush;
         But she, God love her, feared to brush
         The dust from off its wings.

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        "My heart leaps up when I behold"

         My heart leaps up when I behold
         A rainbow in the sky:
         So was it when my life began;
         So is it now I am a man;
         So be it when I shall grow old,
         Or let me die!
         The Child is father of the Man;
         And I could wish my days to be
         Bound each to each by natural piety.

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        "Among all lovely things my love had been"

         Among all lovely things my Love had been;
         Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
         About her home; but she had never seen
         A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

         While riding near her home one stormy night
         A single glow-worm did I chance to espy;
         I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
         And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.

         Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay,
         To bear it with me through the stormy night:
         And, as before, it shone without dismay;
         Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

         When to the dwelling of my Love I came,
         I went into the orchard quietly;
         And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name,
         Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree.

         The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear,
         At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree;
         I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here,"
         Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!

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        WRITTEN IN MARCH

         The Cock is crowing,
         The stream is flowing,
         The small birds twitter,
         The lake doth glitter,
         The green field sleeps in the sun;
         The oldest and youngest
         Are at work with the strongest;
         The cattle are grazing,
         Their heads never raising;
         There are forty feeding like one!

         Like an army defeated
         The snow hath retreated,
         And now doth fare ill
         On the top of the bare hill;
         The ploughboy is whooping - anon - anon:
         There's joy in the mountains;
         There's life in the fountains;
         Small clouds are sailing,
         Blue sky prevailing;
         The rain is over and gone!

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        TO A BUTTERFLY

         I've watched you now a full half-hour,
         Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
         And, little Butterfly! indeed
         I know not if you sleep or feed.
         How motionless! - not- frozen seas
         More motionless! and then
         What joy awaits you, when the breeze
         Hath found you out among the trees,
         And calls you forth again!

         This plot of orchard-ground is ours;
         My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
         Here rest your wings when they are weary;
         Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
         Come often to us, fear no wrong;
         Sit near us on the bough!
         We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
         And summer days, when we were young;
         Sweet childish days, that were as long
         As twenty days are now.

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        THE GREEN LINNET

         Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
         Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
         With brightest sunshine round me spread
         Of spring's unclouded weather,
         In this sequestered nook how sweet
         To sit upon my orchard-seat!
         And birds and flowers once more to greet,
         My last year's friends together.

         One have I marked, the happiest guest
         In all this covert of the blest:.
         Hail to Thee, for above the rest
         In joy of voice and pinion!
         Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
         Presiding Spirit here to-day,
         Dost lead the revels of the May;
         And this is thy dominion.

         While birds, aid butterflies, and flowers,
         Make all one band of paramours,
         Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
         Art sole in thy employment:
         A Life, a Presence like the Air,
         Scattering thy gladness without care,
         Too blest with any one to pair;
         Thyself thy own enjoyment.

         Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
         That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
         Behold him perched in ecstasies,
         Yet seeming still to hover;
         There! where the flutter of his wings
         Upon his back and body flings
         Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
         That cover him all over.

         My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
         A Brother of the dancing leaves;
         Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
         Pours forth his song in gushes;
         As if by that exulting strain
         He mocked and treated with disdain
         The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
         While fluttering in the bushes.

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        THE SOLITARY REAPER

         Behold her, single in the field,
         Yon solitary Highland Lass!
         Reaping and singing by herself;
         Stop here, or gently pass!
         Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
         And sings a melancholy strain;
         listen! for the Vale profound
         Is overflowing with the sound.

         No Nightingale did ever chaunt
         More welcome notes to weary bands
         Of travellers in some shady haunt,
         Among Arabian sands:
         A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
         In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
         Breaking the silence of the seas
         Among the farthest Hebrides.

         Will no one tell me what she sings? -
         Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
         For old, unhappy, far-off things,
         And battles long ago:
         Or is it some more humble lay,
         Familiar matter of to-day?
         Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
         That has been, and may be again?
         Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
         As if her song could have no ending;
         I saw her singing at her work,
         And o'er the sickle bending; -
         I listened, motionless and still;
         And, as I mounted up the hill
         The music in my heart I bore,
         Long after it was heard no more.

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        TO THE CUCKOO

         O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
         I hear thee and rejoice.
         O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
         Or but a wandering Voice?

         While I am lying on the grass
         Thy twofold shout I hear,
         From hill to hill it seems to pass,
         At once far off, and near.

         Though babbling only to the Vale,
         Of sunshine and of flowers,
         Thou bringest unto me a tale
         Of visionary hours.

         Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
         Even yet thou art to me
         No bird, but an invisible thing,
         A voice, a mystery;

         The same whom in my school-boy days
         I listened to; that Cry
         Which made me look a thousand ways
         In bush, and tree, and sky.

         To seek thee did I often rove
         Through woods and on the green;
         And thou wert still a hope, a love;
         Still longed for, never seen.

         And I can listen to thee yet;
         Can lie upon the plain
         And listen, till I do beget
         That golden time again.

         blessed Bird! the earth we pace
         Again appears to be
         An unsubstantial, faery place;
         That is fit home for Thee!

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        "She was a Phantom of delight"

         She was a Phantom of delight
         When first she gleamed upon my sight;
         A lovely Apparition, sent
         To be a moment's ornament;
         Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
         Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
         But all things else about her drawn
         From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
         A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
         To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

         I saw her upon nearer view,
         A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
         Her household motions light and free,
         And steps of virgin-liberty;
         A countenance in which did meet
         Sweet records, promises as sweet;
         A Creature not too bright or good
         For human nature's daily food;
         For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
         Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

         And now I see with eye serene
         The very pulse of the machine;
         A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
         A Traveller between life and death;
         The reason firm, the temperate will,
         Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
         A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
         To warn, to comfort, and command;
         And yet a Spirit still, and bright
         With something of angelic light.

        " "[ . ]

        
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        "I wandered lonely as a cloud"

         I wandered lonely as a cloud
         That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
         When all at once I saw a crowd,
         A host, of golden daffodils;
         Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
         Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

         Continuous as the stars that shine
         And twinkle on the milky way,
         They stretched in never-ending line
         Along the margin of a bay:
         Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
         Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

         The waves beside them danced; but they
         Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
         A poet could not but be gay,
         In such a jocund company:
         I gazed-and gazed-but little thought
         What wealth the show to me had brought:

         For oft, when on my couch I lie
         In vacant or in pensive mood,
         They flash upon that inward eye
         Which is the bliss of solitude;
         And then my heart with pleasure fills,
         And dances with the daffodils.

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        THE SEVEN SISTERS, OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

         I

         Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
         All children of one mother:
         You could not say in one short day
         What love they bore each other.
         A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!
         Seven Sisters that together dwell;
         But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
         Their Father, took of them no thought,
         He loved the wars so well.
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie!

         II

         Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
         And from the shores of Erin,
         Across the wave, a Rover brave
         To Binnorie is steering:
         Right onward to the Scottish strand
         The gallant ship is borne;
         The warriors leap upon the land,
         And hark! the Leader of the band
         Hath blown his bugle horn.
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie.

         III

         Beside a grotto of their own,
         With boughs above them closing,
         The Seven are laid, and in the shade
         They lie like fawns reposing.
         But now, upstarting with affright
         At noise of man and steed,
         Away they fly to left, to right -
         Of your fair household, Father-knight,
         Methinks you take small heed!
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie.

         IV

         Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
         And, over hill and hollow,
         With menace proud, and insult loud,
         The youthful Rovers follow.
         Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
         Enough for him to find
         The empty house when he comes home;
         For us your yellow ringlets comb,
         For us be fair and kind!"
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie.

         V

         Some close behind, some side to side,
         Like clouds in stormy weather;
         They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
         And let us die together."
         A lake was near; the shore was steep;
         There never foot had been;
         They ran, and with a desperate leap
         Together plunged into the deep,
         Nor ever more were seen.
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie.

         VI

         The stream that flows out of the lake,
         As through the glen it rambles,
         Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
         For those seven lovely Campbells.
         Seven little Islands, green and bare,
         Have risen from out the deep:
         The fishers say, those sisters fair,
         By faeries all are buried there,
         And there together sleep.
         Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
         The solitude of Binnorie.

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        TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND

        Composed while We Were Labouring Together
        in His Pleasure-Ground

         Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
         And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
         Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
         I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

         Rare master has it been thy lot to know;
         Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
         Whose life combines the best of high and low,
         The labouring many and the resting few;

         Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
         And industry of body and of mind;
         And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
         As nature is; too pure to be refined.

         Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
         In concord with his river murmuring by;
         Or in some silent field, while timid spring
         Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

         Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid
         Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
         That man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
         A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.

         If he be one that feels, with skill to part
         False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
         Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
         Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

         He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day -
         Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate!
         And, when thou art past service, worn away,
         No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.

         His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
         An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be: -
         High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
         His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

        
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        ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT

         I was thy neighbour once, thou ragged Pile!
         Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
         I saw thee every day; and all the while
         Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

         So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
         So like, so very like, was day to day!
         Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
         It trembled, but it never passed away.

         How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
         No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
         I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
         Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.

         Ah! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
         To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
         The light that never was, on sea or land,
         The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

         I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile
         Amid a world how different from this!
         Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
         On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

         Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
         Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; -
         Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
         The very sweetest had to thee been given.

         A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
         Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
         No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
         Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

         Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
         Such Picture would I at that time have made:
         And seen the soul of truth in every part,
         A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed.

         So once it would have been, - 'tis so no more;
         I have submitted to a new control:
         A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
         A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.

         Not for a moment could I now behold
         A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
         The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
         This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

         Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,
         If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
         This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
         This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

         O 'tis a passionate Work! - yet wise and well,
         Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
         That, Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
         This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

         And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
         I love to see the look with which it braves,
         Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
         The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

         Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
         Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
         Such happiness, wherever it be known,
         Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

         But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
         And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
         Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. -
         Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

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        A COMPLAINT

         There is a change - and I am poor;
         Your love hath been, not long ago,
         A fountain at my fond heart's door,
         Whose only business was to flow;
         And flow it did: not taking heed
         Of its own bounty, or my need.

         What happy moments did I count!
         Blest was I then all bliss above!
         Now, for that consecrated fount
         Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
         What have I? shall I dare to tell?
         A comfortless and hidden well.

         A well of love - it may be deep -
         I trust it is, - and never dry:
         What matter? if the waters sleep
         In silence and obscurity.
         - Such change, and at the very door
         Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

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        GIPSIES

         Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
         Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
         Men, women, children, yea the frame
         Of the whole spectacle the same!
         Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
         Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
         That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
         Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
         - Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
         Have been a traveller under open sky,
         Much witnessing of change and cheer,
         Yet as I left I find them here!
         The weary Sun betook himself to rest; -
         Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
         Outshining like a visible God
         The glorious path in which he trod.
         And now, ascending, after one dark hour
         And one night's diminution of her power,
         Behold the mighty Moon! this way
         She looks as if at them - but they
         Regard not her: - oh better wrong and strife
         (By nature transient) than this torpid life;
         Life which the very stars reprove
         As on their silent tasks they move!
         Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
         In scorn I speak not; - they are what their birth
         And breeding suffer them to be;
         Wild outcasts of society!

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        From "THE EXCURSION"
         ( "")

        "What motive drew, that impulse, I would ask"

         What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask,
         Through a long course of later ages, drove,
         The hermit to his cell in forest wide;
         Or what detained him, till his closing eyes
         Took their last farewell of the sun and stars,
         Fast anchored in the desert? - Not alone
         Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse,
         Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged
         And unavengeable, defeated pride,
         Prosperity subverted, maddening want,
         Friendship betrayed, affection unretumed,
         Love with despair, or grief in agony; -
         Not always from intolerable pangs
         He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed
         For independent happiness; craving peace,
         The central feeling of all happiness,
         Not as a refuge from distress or pain,
         A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,
         But for its absolute self; a life of peace,
         Stability without regret or fear;
         That hath been, is, and shall be evermore! -
         Such the reward he sought; and wore out life,
         There, where on few external things his heart
         Was set, and those his own; or, if not his,
         Subsisting under nature's stedfast law.
         What other yearning was the master tie
         Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock
         Aerial, or in green secluded vale,
         One after one, collected from afar,
         An undissolving fellowship? - What but this,
         The universal instinct of repose,
         The longing for confirmed tranquillity,
         Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:
         The life where hope and memory are as one;
         Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged
         Save by the simplest toil of human hands
         Or seasons' difference; the immortal Soul
         Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed
         To meditation in that quietness! -

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        From "POEMS" (1815)
         "" (1815)

        A NIGHT-PIECE

         At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
         Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
         His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
         Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split
         Asunder, - and above his head he sees
         The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
         There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
         Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
         And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
         Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
         Yet vanish not! - the wind is in the tree,
         But they are silent; - still they roll along
         Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
         Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
         Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
         At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
         Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
         Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
         Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

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        INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING
        THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

         Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
         Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
         And giv'st to forms and images a breath
         And everlasting motion! not in vain
         By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
         Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
         The passions that build up our human soul;
         Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
         But with high objects, with enduring things
         With life and nature; purifying thus
         The elements of feeling and of thought,
         And sanctifying by such discipline
         Both pain and fear, - until we recognise
         A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
         Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
         With stinted kindness. In November days,
         When vapours rolling down the valleys made
         A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
         At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
         When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
         Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went
         In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
         Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
         And by the waters, all the summer long.
         And in the frosty season, when the sun
         Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
         The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,
         I heeded not the summons: happy time
         It was indeed for all of us; for me
         It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud
         The village-clock tolled six - I wheeled about,
         Proud and exulting like an untired horse
         That cares not for his home. - All shod with steel
         We hissed along the polished ice, in games
         Confederate, imitative of the chase
         And woodland pleasures, - the resounding horn,
         The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
         So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
         And not a voice was idle: with the din
         Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
         The leafless trees and every icy crag
         Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
         Into the tumult sent an alien sound
         Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
         Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
         The orange sky of evening died away.
         Not seldom from the uproar I retired
         Into a silent bay, or sportively
         Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
         To cut across the reflex of a star;
         Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
         Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
         When we had given our bodies to the wind,
         And all the shadowy banks on either side
         Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
         The rapid line of motion, then at once
         Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
         Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
         Wheeled by me - even as if the earth had rolled
         With visible motion her diurnal round!
         Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
         Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
         Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

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        LAODAMIA

         "With sacrifice before the rising mom
         Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
         And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
         Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
         Celestial pity I again implore; -
         Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"

         So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
         With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
         While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
         Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands;
         Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
         And she expects the issue in repose.

         terror! what hath she perceived? - joy!
         What doth she look on? - whom doth she behold?
         Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
         His vital presence? his corporeal mould?
         It is - if sense deceive her not - 'tis He!
         And a God leads him, winged Mercury!

         Mild Hermes spake - and touched her with his wand
         That calms all fear; "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
         Laodamia! that at Jove's command
         Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:
         He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
         Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"

         Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;
         Again that consummation she essayed;
         But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
         As often as that eager grasp was made.
         The Phantom parts - but parts to re-unite,
         And re-assume his place before her sight.

         "Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
         Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice:
         This is our palace, - yonder is thy throne;
         Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.
         Not to appal me have the gods bestowed
         This precious boon; and blest a sad abode."

         "Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
         His gifts imperfect: - Spectre though I be,
         I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
         But in reward of thy fidelity.
         And something also did my worth obtain;
         For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

         "Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
         That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand
         Should die; but me the threat could not withhold:
         A generous cause a victim did demand;
         And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
         A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain."

         "Supreme of Heroes-bravest, noblest, best!
         Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
         Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
         By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
         Thou found'st - and I forgive thee - here thou art -
         A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.

         "But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
         Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
         And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
         Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave:
         Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
         As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.

         "No Spectre greets me, - no vain Shadow this;
         Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
         Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss
         To me, this day, a second time thy bride!"
         Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcae threw
         Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.

         "This visage tells thee that my doom is past:
         Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys
         Of sense were able to return as fast
         And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
         Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains:
         Calm pleasures there abide-majestic pains.

         "Be taught, faithful Consort, to control
         Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
         The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
         A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
         Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
         When I depart, for brief is my sojourn - "

         "Ah, wherefore? - Did not Hercules by force
         Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb
         Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
         Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?
         Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
         And Aeson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.

         "The Gods to us are merciful - and they
         Yet further may relent: for mightier far
         Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway
         Of magic potent over sun and star,
         Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
         And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.

         "But if thou goest, I follow - " "Peace!" he said, -
         She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered;
         The ghastly colour from his lips had fled;
         In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared
         Elysian beauty, melancholy grace,
         Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

         He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel
         In worlds whose course is equable and pure;
         No fears to beat away - no strife to heal -
         The past unsighed for, and the future sure;
         Spake of heroic arts in graver mood
         Revived, with finer harmony pursued;

         Of all that is most beauteous - imaged there
         In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
         An ampler ether, a diviner air,
         And fields invested with purpureal gleams;
         Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
         Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.

         Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned
         That privilege by virtue. - "Ill," said he,
         "The end of man's existence I discerned,
         Who from ignoble games and revelry
         Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight,
         While tears were thy best pastime, day and night;

         "And while my youthful peers before my eyes
         (Each hero following his peculiar bent)
         Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise
         By martial sports, - or, seated in the tent,
         Chieftains andjcings in council were detained;
         What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained.

         "The wished-for wind was given: - I then revolved
         The oracle, upon the silent sea;
         And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
         That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be
         The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, -
         Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

         "Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang
         When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife!
         On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
         And on the joys we shared in mortal life, -
         The paths which we had trod - these fountains, flowers
         My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.

         "But should suspense permit the Foe to cry,
         'Behold they tremble! - haughty their array,
         Yet of their number no one dares to die?'
         In soul I swept the indignity away:
         Old frailties then recurred: - but lofty thought,
         In act embodied, my deliverance wrought.

         "And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak
         In reason, in self-government too slow;
         I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
         Our blest re-union in the shades below.
         The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
         Be thy affections raised and solemnised.

         "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend -
         Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
         Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
         For this the passion to excess was driven -
         That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
         The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." -

         Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears!
         Round the dear Shade she would have clung - 'tis vain:
         The hours are past - too brief had they been years;
         And him no mortal effort can detain:
         Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day,
         He through the portal takes his silent way,
         And oh the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay.
         Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved,

         She perished; and, as for a wilful crime,
         By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved,
         Was doomed to wear out her appointed time,
         Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers
         Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

         - Yet tears to human suffering are due;
         And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
         Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
         As fondly he believes. - Upon the side

         Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
         A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
         From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
         And ever, when such stature they had gained
         That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
         The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
         A constant interchange of growth and blight!

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        "I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind"

         I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind
         That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost -
         A midnight harmony; and wholly lost
         To the general sense of men by chains confined
         Of business, care, or pleasure, or resigned
         To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
         Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
         Like acceptation from the World will find.
         Yet some with apprehensive car shall drink
         A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past:
         And to the attendant promise will give heed -
         The prophecy, - like that of this wild blast,
         Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
         Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.

        " ; "[ . ]

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        THE FRENCH AND THE SPANISH GUERILLAS

         Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
         From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
         Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height -
         These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
         The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
         Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
         Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
         So these, - and, heard of once again, are chased
         With combinations of long-practised art
         And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled -
         Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
         Where now? - Their sword is at the Foeman's heart;
         And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
         And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.

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        "Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind"

         "Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
         Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
         Heavy is woe;-and joy, for human-kind,
         A mournful thing so transient is the blaze!"
         Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
         Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
         To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
         And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
         Imagination is that sacred power,
         Imagination lofty and refined:
         'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
         Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
         Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
         And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

        " "[ . ]

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        "Surprised by joy-impatient as the Wind"

         Surprised by joy-impatient as the Wind
         I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
         But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
         That spot which no vicissitude can find?
         Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind -
         But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
         Even for the least division of an hour,
         Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
         To my most grievous loss! - That thought's return
         Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
         Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
         Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
         That neither present time, nor years unborn
         Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

        " , "[ . ]

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        SEPTEMBER 1815

         While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
         With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
         In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
         Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
         His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
         Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
         And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
         Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
         For me, who under kindlier laws belong
         To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
         Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
         Announce a season potent to renew,
         'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
         And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

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        "Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!.."

         Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
         Not dull art Thou as undiscerning Night;
         But studious only to remove from sight
         Day's mutable distinctions. - Ancient Power!
         Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,
         To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
         Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest
         On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
         Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen
         The self-same Vision which we now behold,
         At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth;
         These mighty barriers, and the gulf between;
         The flood, the stars, - a spectacle as old
         As the beginning of the heavens and earth!

        " , "[ . ]

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        From the Prologue to "PETER BELL"
         " "

        "There's something in a flying horse"

         There's something in a flying horse,
         There's something in a huge balloon;
         But through the clouds I'll never float
         Until I have a little Boat,
         Shaped like the crescent-moon.

         And now I have a little Boat,
         In shape a very crescent-moon
         Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
         But if perchance your faith should fail,
         Look up - and you shall see me soon!

         The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
         Rocking and roaring like a sea;
         The noise of danger's in your ears,
         And ye have all a thousand fears
         Both for my little Boat and me!

         Meanwhile untroubled I admire
         The pointed horns of my canoe;
         And, did not pity touch my breast,
         To see how ye are all distrest,
         Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!

         Away we go, my Boat and I -
         Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
         Whether among the winds we strive,
         Or deep into the clouds we dive,
         Each is contented with the other.

         Away we go - and what care we
         For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
         We are as calm in our delight
         As is the crescent-moon so bright
         Among the scattered stars.

         Up goes my Boat among the stars
         Through many a breathless field of light,
         Through many a long blue field of ether,
         Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
         Up goes my little Boat so bright!

         The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull -
         We pry among them all; have shot
         High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
         Covered from top to toe with scars;
         Such company I like it not!

         The towns in Saturn are decayed,
         And melancholy Spectres throng them; -
         The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
         Each other in the vast abyss,
         With joy I sail among them.

         Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
         Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
         But these, and all that they contain,
         What are they to that tiny grain,
         That little Earth of ours?

         Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth: -
         Whole ages if I here should roam,
         The world for my remarks and me
         Would not a whit the better be;
         I've left my heart at home.

         See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
         There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
         Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
         Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
         Like waters in commotion!

         Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands;
         That silver thread the river Dnieper!
         And look, where clothed in brightest green
         Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
         Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

        " "[ . ]

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        From "THE RIVER DUDDON, A SERIES OF SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS"
         " "

        THE RIVER DUDDON
        

        "Not envying Latian shades-if yet they throw"

         Not envying Latian shades - if yet they throw
         A grateful coolness round that crystal Spring,
         Blandusia, prattling as when long ago
         The Sabine Bard was moved her praise to sing;
         Careless of flowers that in perennial blow
         Round the moist marge of Persian fountains cling;
         Heedless of Alpine torrents thundering
         Through ice-built arches radiant as heaven's bow;
         I seek the birthplace of a native Stream. -
         All hail, ye mountains! hail, thou morning light!
         Better to breathe at large on this clear height
         Than toil in needless sleep from dream to dream:
         Pure flow the verse, pure, vigorous, free, and bright,
         For Duddon, long-loved Duddon, is my theme!

        " "[ . ]

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        "Child of the clouds! remote from every taint"

         Child of the clouds! remote from every taint
         Of sordid industry thy lot is cast;
         Thine are the honours of the lofty waste
         Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint,
         Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint
         Thy cradle decks;-to chant thy birth, thou hast
         No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast,
         And Desolation is thy Patron-saint!
         She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare
         Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen,
         Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair
         Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green;
         Thousands of years before the silent air
         Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!

        " ! "[ . ]

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        "How shall I paint thee? - Be this naked stone"

         How shall I paint thee? - Be this naked stone
         My seat, while I give way to such intent;
         Pleased could my verse, a speaking monument,
         Make to the eyes of men thy features known.
         But as of all those tripping lambs not one
         Outruns his fellows, so hath Nature lent
         To thy beginning nought that doth present
         Peculiar ground for hope to build upon.
         To dignity the spot that gives thee birth
         No sign of hoar Antiquity's esteem
         Appears, and none of modern Fortune's care;
         Yet thou thyself hast round thee shed a gleam
         Of brilliant moss, instinct with freshness rare;
         Prompt offering to thy Foster-mother, Earth!

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        THE PLAIN OF DONNERDALE

         The old inventive Poets, had they seen,
         Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains
         Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains -
         The still repose, the liquid lapse serene,
         Transferred to bowers imperishably green,
         Had beautified Elysium! But these chains
         Will soon be broken;-a rough course remains,
         Rough as the past; where Thou, of placid mien,
         Innocuous as a firstling of the flock,
         And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky,
         Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock
         Given and received in mutual jeopardy,
         Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock,
         Tossing her frantic thyrsus wide and high!

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        AFTER-THOUGHT

         I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide.
         As being past away. - Vain sympathies!
         For, backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,
         I see what was, and is, and will abide;
         Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide;
         The Form remains, the Function never dies;
         While we, the brave, the mighty, and the wise;
         We Men, who in our morn of youth defied
         The elements, must vanish; - be it so!
         Enough, if something from our hands have power
         To live, and act, and serve the future hour;
         And if, as toward the silent tomb we go,
         Through love, through hope, and faith's transcendent
         dower.
         We feel that we are greater than we know.

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        THE PILGRIM'S DREAM

         A Pilgrim, when the summer day
         Had closed upon his weary way,
         A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
         But him the haughty Warder spurned;
         And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
         To seek such covert as the field
         Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
         Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

         He paced along; and, pensively,
         Halting beneath a shady tree,
         Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,
         Fixed on a Star his upward eye;
         Then, from the tenant of the sky
         He turned, and watched with kindred look,
         A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,
         Apparent at his feet.

         The murmur of a neighbouring stream
         Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
         A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
         He recognised the earth-born Star,
      &nb