When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And so, not seven years old, The slighted Child at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill In thoughtless freedom bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw And from that oaten pipe could draw All sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An Infant of the woods.
There came a Youth from Georgia's shore, A military Casque he wore With splendid feathers drest; He brought them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung: Ah no! he spake the English tongue And bare a Soldier's name; And when America was free From battle and from jeopardy He cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek In finest tones the Youth could speak. —While he was yet a Boy The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run Had been his dearest joy.
He was a lovely Youth! I guess The panther in the wilderness Was not so fair as he; And when he chose to sport and play, No dolphin ever was so gay Upon the tropic sea.
Among the Indians he had fought, And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear, Such tales as told to any Maid By such a Youth in the green shade Were perilous to hear.
He told of Girls, a happy rout, Who quit their fold with dance and shout Their pleasant Indian Town To gather strawberries all day long, Returning with a choral song When day-light is gone down.
He spake of plants divine and strange That ev'ry day their blossoms change, Ten thousand lovely hues! With budding, fading, faded flowers They stand the wonder of the bowers From morn to evening dews.
He told of the Magnolia, [6] spread High as a cloud, high over head! The Cypress and her spire, Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam [7] Cover a hundred leagues and seem To set the hills on fire.
[Footnote 6: Magnolia grandiflora.]
[Footnote 7: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.]
The Youth of green Savannahs spake, And many an endless endless lake With all its fairy crowds Of islands that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds:
And then he said "How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, A gardener in the shade, Still wandering with an easy mind To build a household fire and find A home in every glade."
"What days and what sweet years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with thee So pass'd in quiet bliss, And all the while" said he "to know That we were in a world of woe. On such an earth as this!"
And then he sometimes interwove Dear thoughts about a Father's love, "For there," said he, "are spun Around the heart such tender ties That our own children to our eyes Are dearer than the sun."
Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me My helpmate in the woods to be, Our shed at night to rear; Or run, my own adopted bride, A sylvan huntress at my side And drive the flying deer.
"Beloved Ruth!" No more he said Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed A solitary tear, She thought again—and did agree With him to sail across the sea, And drive the flying deer.
"And now, as fitting is and right, We in the Church our faith will plight, A Husband and a Wife." Even so they did; and I may say That to sweet Ruth that happy day Was more than human life.
Through dream and vision did she sink, Delighted all the while to think That on those lonesome floods And green Savannahs she should share His board with lawful joy, and bear His name in the wild woods.
But, as you have before been told, This Stripling, sportive gay and bold, And, with his dancing crest, So beautiful, through savage lands Had roam'd about with vagrant bands Of Indians in the West.
The wind, the tempest roaring high, The tumult of a tropic sky Might well be dangerous food. For him, a Youth to whom was given So much of earth so much of Heaven, And such impetuous blood.
Whatever in those climes he found Irregular in sight or sound Did to his mind impart A kindred impulse, seem'd allied To his own powers, and justified The workings of his heart.
Nor less to feed voluptuous thought The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, Fair trees and lovely flowers; The breezes their own languor lent, The stars had feelings which they sent Into those magic bowers.
Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween, That sometimes there did intervene Pure hopes of high intent: For passions link'd to forms so fair And stately, needs must have their share Of noble sentiment.
But ill he liv'd, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known; Deliberately and undeceiv'd Those wild men's vices he receiv'd, And gave them back his own.
His genius and his moral frame Were thus impair'd, and he became The slave of low desires; A man who without self-controul Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires.
And yet he with no feign'd delight Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night Had luv'd her, night and morn; What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature play'd So kind and so forlorn?
But now the pleasant dream was gone, No hope, no wish remain'd, not one, They stirr'd him now no more, New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wish'd to live As lawless as before.
Meanwhile as thus with him it fared. They for the voyage were prepared And went to the sea-shore, But, when they thither came, the Youth Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more.
"God help thee Ruth!"—Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad And in a prison hous'd, And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs She fearfully carouz'd.
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May, They all were with her in her cell, And a wild brook with chearful knell Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, She from her prison fled; But of the Vagrant none took thought, And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breath'd again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free, And to the pleasant Banks of Tone [8] She took her way, to dwell alone Under the greenwood tree.
The engines of her grief, the tools That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever tax'd them with the ill Which had been done to her.
[Footnote 8: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.]
A Barn her winter bed supplies, But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And in this tale we all agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none.
If she is press'd by want of food She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road side, And there she begs at one steep place, Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away, but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers; This flute made of a hemlock stalk At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock Woodman hears.
I, too have pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild, Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd A young and happy Child!
Farewel! and when thy days are told Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mold Thy corpse shall buried be, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee.
LINES Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale.
Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little dome Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.— The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd With all his ancestry. Then peace to him And for the outrage which he had devis'd Entire forgiveness.—But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose, There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.
In the School of —— is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.
If Nature, for a favorite Child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild Yet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years.
—When through this little wreck of fame, Cypher and syllable, thine eye Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy.
And if a sleeping tear should wake Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made.
Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool, Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school.
The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs Of one tir'd out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.
Yet sometimes when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round It seem'd as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, Thou happy soul, and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee?
The Two April Mornings.
We walk'd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun, And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, "The will of God be done!"
A village Schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering grey; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travell'd merrily to pass A day among the hills.
"Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?"
A second time did Matthew stop, And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top To me he made reply.
Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind.
And on that slope of springing corn The self-same crimson hue Fell from the sky that April morn, The same which now I view!
With rod and line my silent sport I plied by Derwent's wave, And, coming to the church, stopp'd short Beside my Daughter's grave.
Nine summers had she scarcely seen The pride of all the vale; And then she sang!—she would have been A very nightingale.
Six feet in earth my Emma lay, And yet I lov'd her more, For so it seem'd, than till that day I e'er had lov'd before.
And, turning from her grave, I met Beside the church-yard Yew A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew.
The FOUNTAIN, A Conversation.
We talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of Friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat, And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet.
Now, Matthew, let us try to match This water's pleasant tune With some old Border-song, or catch That suits a summer's noon.
Or of the Church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!
On silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old Man replied, The grey-hair'd Man of glee.
"Down to the vale this water steers, How merrily it goes! Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows."
And here, on this delightful day, I cannot chuse but think How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay Beside this Fountain's brink.
My eyes are dim with childish tears. My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears, Which in those days I heard.
Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.
The blackbird in the summer trees, The lark upon the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.
With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:
But we are press'd by heavy laws, And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.
If there is one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The houshold hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth.
"My days, my Friend, are almost gone, My life has been approv'd, And many love me, but by none Am I enough belov'd."
"Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains,"
"And, Matthew, for thy Children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasp'd his hands, and said, "Alas! that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side, And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide, And through the wood we went,
And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock And the bewilder'd chimes.
—It seems a day, One of those heavenly days which cannot die, When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, [1] And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung, A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds Put on for the occasion, by advice And exhortation of my frugal Dame.
[Footnote 1: The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.]
Motley accoutrements! of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, More ragged than need was. Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene!—A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless'd With sudden happiness beyond all hope.— —Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye, Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees, Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away, Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.—
Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades In gentleness of heart with gentle hand Touch,—for there is a Spirit in the woods.
Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take, She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own."
Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse, and with me The Girl in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs, And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lend To her, for her the willow bend, Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm A beauty that shall mould her form By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dear To her, and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.
And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell, Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.
Thus Nature spake—The work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene, The memory of what has been, And never more will be.
The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink! And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied; A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.
No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone; With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel, While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.
The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.
'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare; I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair. And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away, But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place I unobserv'd could see the workings of her face: If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.
What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be. Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer, And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.
If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain, For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear, The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.
Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my Father found thee first in places far away: Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none, And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home, A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam? A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.
Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough, My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature can it be That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou can'st neither see nor hear.
Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there, The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky, He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by, Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be, Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, And it seem'd as I retrac'd the ballad line by line That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.
Again, and once again did I repeat the song, "Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong, For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."
Written in GERMANY, On one of the coldest days of the Century.
I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A fig for your languages, German and Norse, Let me have the song of the Kettle, And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff, But her pulses beat slower and slower. The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough, And now it is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps A child of the field, or the grove, And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains Which this comfortless oven environ, He cannot find out in what track he must crawl Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall, And now on the brink of the iron.
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd, The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South and the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh, His eyesight and hearing are lost, Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws, And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost.
No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love, As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing, Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again.
The CHILDLESS FATHER.
Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! Not a soul in the village this morning will stay; The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds, And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.
—Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green, On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen, With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
The bason of box-wood, [9] just six months before, Had stood on the table at Timothy's door, A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pass'd, One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.
[Footnote 9: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.]
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away! Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shut With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said, "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead" But of this in my ears not a word did he speak, And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. A DESCRIPTION.
The OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR, A DESCRIPTION.
The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk, And he was seated by the highway side On a low structure of rude masonry Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they Who lead their horses down the steep rough road May thence remount at ease. The aged man Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone That overlays the pile, and from a bag All white with flour the dole of village dames, He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one, And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look Of idle computation. In the sun, Upon the second step of that small pile, Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, He sate, and eat his food in solitude; And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand, That still attempting to prevent the waste, Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds, Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal, Approached within the length of half his staff.
Him from my childhood have I known, and then He was so old, he seems not older now; He travels on, a solitary man, So helpless in appearance, that for him The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw With careless hand his alms upon the ground, But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so, But still when he has given his horse the rein Towards the aged Beggar turns a look, Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tends The toll-gate, when in summer at her door She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees The aged Beggar coming, quits her work, And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertake The aged Beggar, in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance The old Man does not change his course, the Boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.
He travels on, a solitary Man, His age has no companion. On the ground His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground; and evermore; Instead of common and habitual sight Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, And the blue sky, one little span of earth Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground, He plies his weary journey, seeing still, And never knowing that he sees, some straw, Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track, The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left Impress'd on the white road, in the same line, At distance still the same. Poor Traveller! His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet Disturb the summer dust, he is so still In look and motion that the cottage curs, Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls, The vacant and the busy, maids and youths, And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by: Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
But deem not this man useless.—Statesmen! ye Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye Who have a broom still ready in your hands To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul to every mode of being Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps From door to door, the Villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom, half-experience gives Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.
Among the farms and solitary huts Hamlets, and thinly-scattered villages, Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds, The mild necessity of use compels To acts of love; and habit does the work Of reason, yet prepares that after joy Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd To virtue and true goodness. Some there are, By their good works exalted, lofty minds And meditative, authors of delight And happiness, which to the end of time Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these, In childhood, from this solitary being, This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd, (A thing more precious far than all that books Or the solicitudes of love can do!) That first mild touch of sympathy and thought, In which they found their kindred with a world Where want and sorrow were. The easy man Who sits at his own door, and like the pear Which overhangs his head from the green wall, Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young, The prosperous and unthinking, they who live Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove Of their own kindred, all behold in him A silent monitor, which on their minds Must needs impress a transitory thought Of self-congratulation, to the heart Of each recalling his peculiar boons, His charters and exemptions; and perchance, Though he to no one give the fortitude And circumspection needful to preserve His present blessings, and to husband up The respite of the season, he, at least, And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are Who live a life of virtuous decency, Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel No self-reproach, who of the moral law Establish'd in the land where they abide Are strict observers, and not negligent, Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart Or act of love to those with whom they dwell, Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor, Go and demand of him, if there be here, In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul. No—man is dear to man: the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been Themselves the fathers and the dealers out Of some small blessings, have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself By her own wants, she from her chest of meal Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door Returning with exhilarated heart, Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And while, in that vast solitude to which The tide of things has led him, he appears To breathe and live but for himself alone, Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about The good which the benignant law of heaven Has hung around him, and, while life is his, Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! And, long as he can wander, let him breathe The freshness of the vallies, let his blood Struggle with frosty air and winter snows, And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness Gives the last human interest to his heart. May never House, misnamed of industry, Make him a captive; for that pent-up din, Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air, Be his the natural silence of old age.
Let him be free of mountain solitudes, And have around him, whether heard or nor, The pleasant melody of woodland birds. Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now Have been so long familiar with the earth, No more behold the horizontal sun Rising or setting, let the light at least Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank Of high-way side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally, As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd, So in the eye of Nature let him die.
RURAL ARCHITECTURE.
There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb, and there they built up without mortar or lime A Man on the peak of the crag.
They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay, They built him and christen'd him all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.
Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the North Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. And what did these School-boys?—The very next day They went and they built up another.
—Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag. —Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag! And I'll build up a Giant with you.
Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside.
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business train'd and bred, —First learn to love one living man; Then may'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falshood of thy sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer? A rosy man, right plump to see? Approach; yet Doctor, not too near: This grave no cushion is for thee.
Art thou a man of gallant pride, A Soldier, and no mail of chaff? Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a Peasant's staff.
Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave?
Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece O turn aside, and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy pin-point of a soul away!
—A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And He has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God;
One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling Nor form nor feeling great nor small, A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All in All!
Shut close the door! press down the latch: Sleep in thy intellectual crust, Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shews of sky and earth. Of hill and valley he has view'd; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both man and boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand.
—Come hither in thy hour of strength, Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length Or build thy house upon this grave.—
A CHARACTER, In the antithetical Manner.
I marvel how Nature could ever find space For the weight and the levity seen in his face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom, And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain; Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace—a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there. There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.
What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art, —Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart, And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.
A FRAGMENT
Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowrets of the hills, And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his beet; But in this lonesome nook the bird Did never build his nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home; The bees borne on the breezy air Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells. Nor ever linger there. The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew, But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody.
Of flocks and herds both far and near He is the darling and the joy, And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.
When near this blasted tree you pass, Two sods are plainly to be seen Close at its root, and each with grass Is cover'd fresh and green.
Like turf upon a new-made grave These two green sods together lie, Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind Can these two sods together bind, Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade.
There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove; From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war; They seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.
