SONG.

  She dwelt among th' untrodden ways
    Beside the springs of Dove,
  A Maid whom there were none to praise
    And very few to love.

  A Violet by a mossy stone
    Half-hidden from the Eye!
  —Fair, as a star when only one
    Is shining in the sky!

  She liv'd unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceas'd to be;
  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!
    The difference to me.

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

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

The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE.

  "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,
  Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,
  Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
  Between me and my choice!"
  A falling Water swoln with snows
  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,
  That all bespatter'd with his foam,
  And dancing high, and dancing low,
  Was living, as a child might know,
  In an unhappy home.

  "Dost thou presume my course to block?
  Off, off! or, puny Thing!
  I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
  To which thy fibres cling."
  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
  The patient Briar suffer'd long,
  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
  Hoping the danger would be pass'd:
  But seeing no relief, at last
  He venture'd to reply.

  "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!
  Why should we dwell in strife?
  We who in this, our natal spot,
  Once liv'd a happy life!
  You stirr'd me on my rocky bed—
  What pleasure thro' my veins you spread!
  The Summer long from day to day
  My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;
  Nor was it common gratitude
  That did your cares repay."

  When Spring came on with bud and bell,
  Among these rocks did I
  Before you hang my wreath to tell
  That gentle days were nigh!
  And in the sultry summer hours
  I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;
  And in my leaves now shed and gone
  The linnet lodg'd and for us two
  Chaunted his pretty songs when you
  Had little voice or none.

  But now proud thoughts are in your breast—
  What grief is mine you see.
  Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest
  Together we might be!
  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
  Some ornaments to me are left—
  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
  With which I in my humble way
  Would deck you many a Winter's day,
  A happy Eglantine!

  What more he said, I cannot tell.
  The stream came thundering down the dell
  And gallop'd loud and fast;
  I listen'd, nor aught else could hear,
  The Briar quak'd and much I fear.
  Those accents were his last.

The OAK and the BROOM,

A PASTORAL.

  His simple truths did Andrew glean
  Beside the babbling rills;
  A careful student he had been
  Among the woods and hills.
  One winter's night when through the Trees
  The wind was thundering, on his knees
  His youngest born did Andrew hold:
  And while the rest, a ruddy quire
  Were seated round their blazing fire,
  This Tale the Shepherd told.

  I saw a crag, a lofty stone
  As ever tempest beat!
  Out of its head an Oak had grown,
  A Broom out of its feet.
  The time was March, a chearful noon—
  The thaw-wind with the breath of June
  Breath'd gently from the warm South-west;
  When in a voice sedate with age
  This Oak, half giant and half sage,
  His neighbour thus address'd.

  "Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay,
  Along this mountain's edge
  The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
  Wedge driving after wedge.
  Look up, and think, above your head
  What trouble surely will be bred;
  Last night I heard a crash—'tis true,
  The splinters took another road—
  I see them yonder—what a load
  For such a Thing as you!"

  You are preparing as before
  To deck your slender shape;
  And yet, just three years back—no more—
  You had a strange escape.
  Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,
  It came, you know, with fire and smoke
  And hither did it bend its way.
  This pond'rous block was caught by me,
  And o'er your head, as you may see,
  'Tis hanging to this day.

  The Thing had better been asleep,
  Whatever thing it were,
  Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,
  That first did plant you there.
  For you and your green twigs decoy
  The little witless Shepherd-boy
  To come and slumber in your bower;
  And trust me, on some sultry noon,
  Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
  Will perish in one hour.

  "From me this friendly warning take"—
  —The Broom began to doze,
  And thus to keep herself awake
  Did gently interpose.
  "My thanks for your discourse are due;
  That it is true, and more than true,
  I know and I have known it long;
  Frail is the bond, by which we hold
  Our being, be we young or old,
  Wise, foolish, weak or strong."

  Disasters, do the best we can,
  Will reach both great and small;
  And he is oft the wisest man,
  Who is not wise at all.
  For me, why should I wish to roam?
  This spot is my paternal home,
  It is my pleasant Heritage;
  My Father many a happy year
  Here spread his careless blossoms, here
  Attain'd a good old age.

  Even such as his may be may lot.
  What cause have I to haunt
  My heart with terrors? Am I not
  In truth a favor'd plant!
  The Spring for me a garland weaves
  Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,
  And, when the Frost is in the sky,
  My branches are so fresh and gay
  That You might look on me and say
  This plant can never die.

  The butterfly, all green and gold,
  To me hath often flown,
  Here in my Blossoms to behold
  Wings lovely as his own.
  When grass is chill with rain or dew,
  Beneath my shade the mother ewe
  Lies with her infant lamb; I see
  The love, they to each other make,
  And the sweet joy, which they partake,
  It is a joy to me.

  Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
  The Broom might have pursued
  Her speech, until the stars of night
  Their journey had renew'd.
  But in the branches of the Oak
  Two Ravens now began to croak
  Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
  And to her own green bower the breeze
  That instant brought two stripling Bees
  To feed and murmur there.

  One night the Wind came from the North
  And blew a furious blast,
  At break of day I ventur'd forth
  And near the Cliff I pass'd.
  The storm had fall'n upon the Oak
  And struck him with a mighty stroke,
  And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away;
  And in one hospitable Cleft
  The little careless Broom was left
  To live for many a day.

LUCY GRAY.

  Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
  And when I cross'd the Wild,
  I chanc'd to see at break of day
  The solitary Child.

  No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
  She dwelt on a wild Moor,
  The sweetest Thing that ever grew
  Beside a human door!

  You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
  The Hare upon the Green;
  But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
  Will never more be seen.

  "To-night will be a stormy night,
  You to the Town must go,
  And take a lantern, Child, to light
  Your Mother thro' the snow."

  "That, Father! will I gladly do;
  'Tis scarcely afternoon—
  The Minster-clock has just struck two,
  And yonder is the Moon."

  At this the Father rais'd his hook
  And snapp'd a faggot-band;
  He plied his work, and Lucy took
  The lantern in her hand.

  Not blither is the mountain roe,
  With many a wanton stroke
  Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow
  That rises up like smoke.

  The storm came on before its time,
  She wander'd up and down,
  And many a hill did Lucy climb
  But never reach'd the Town.

  The wretched Parents all that night
  Went shouting far and wide;
  But there was neither sound nor sight
  To serve them for a guide.

  At day-break on a hill they stood
  That overlook'd the Moor;
  And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood
  A furlong from their door.

  And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd
  "In Heaven we all shall meet!"
  When in the snow the Mother spied
  The print of Lucy's feet.

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

  And then an open field they cross'd,
  The marks were still the same;
  They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
  And to the Bridge they came.

  They follow'd from the snowy bank
  The footmarks, one by one,
  Into the middle of the plank,
  And further there were none.

  Yet some maintain that to this day
  She is a living Child,
  That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
  Upon the lonesome Wild.

  O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
  And never looks behind;
  And sings a solitary song
  That whistles in the wind.

The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS,

OR

DUNGEON-GILL FORCE, [5] A PASTORAL.

[Footnote 5: 'Gill', in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.]

I.

  The valley rings with mirth and joy,
  Among the hills the Echoes play
  A never, never ending song
  To welcome in the May.
  The Magpie chatters with delight;

  The mountain Raven's youngling Brood
  Have left the Mother and the Nest,
  And they go rambling east and west
  In search of their own food,
  Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart
  In very wantonness of Heart.

II.

  Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
  Two Boys are sitting in the sun;
  It seems they have no work to do
  Or that their work is done.
  On pipes of sycamore they play
  The fragments of a Christmas Hymn,
  Or with that plant which in our dale
  We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail
  Their rusty Hats they trim:
  And thus as happy as the Day,
  Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III.

  Along the river's stony marge
  The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;
  The thrush is busy in the Wood,
  And carols loud and strong.
  A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
  All newly born! both earth and sky
  Keep jubilee, and more than all,
  Those Boys with their green Coronal,
  They never hear the cry,
  That plaintive cry! which up the hill
  Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.

IV.

  Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
  "Down to the stump of yon old yew
  I'll run with you a race."—No more—
  Away the Shepherds flew.
  They leapt, they ran, and when they came
  Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,
  Seeing, that he should lose the prize,
  "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries—
  James stopp'd with no good will:
  Said Walter then, "Your task is here,
  'Twill keep you working half a year."

V.

  "Till you have cross'd where I shall cross,
  Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat."
  James proudly took him at his word,
  But did not like the feat.
  It was a spot, which you may see
  If ever you to Langdale go:
  Into a chasm a mighty Block
  Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;
  The gulph is deep below,
  And in a bason black and small
  Receives a lofty Waterfall.

VI.

  With staff in hand across the cleft
  The Challenger began his march;
  And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd
  The middle of the arch.
  When list! he hears a piteous moan—
  Again! his heart within him dies—
  His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost,
  He totters, pale as any ghost,
  And, looking down, he spies
  A Lamb, that in the pool is pent
  Within that black and frightful rent.

VII.

  The Lamb had slipp'd into the stream,
  And safe without a bruise or wound
  The Cataract had borne him down
  Into the gulph profound,
  His dam had seen him when he fell,
  She saw him down the torrent borne;
  And while with all a mother's love
  She from the lofty rocks above
  Sent forth a cry forlorn,
  The Lamb, still swimming round and round
  Made answer to that plaintive sound.

VIII.

  When he had learnt, what thing it was,
  That sent this rueful cry; I ween,
  The Boy recover'd heart, and told
  The sight which he had seen.
  Both gladly now deferr'd their task;
  Nor was there wanting other aid—
  A Poet, one who loves the brooks
  Far better than the sages' books,
  By chance had thither stray'd;
  And there the helpless Lamb he found
  By those huge rocks encompass'd round.

IX.

  He drew it gently from the pool,
  And brought it forth into the light;
  The Shepherds met him with his charge
  An unexpected sight!
  Into their arms the Lamb they took,
  Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd"—
  Then up the steep ascent they hied
  And placed him at his Mother's side;
  And gently did the Bard
  Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
  And bade them better mind their trade.

  'Tis said, that some have died for love:
  And here and there a church-yard grave is found
  In the cold North's unhallow'd ground,
  Because the wretched man himself had slain,
  His love was such a grievous pain.
  And there is one whom I five years have known;
  He dwells alone
  Upon Helvellyn's side.
  He loved—The pretty Barbara died,
  And thus he makes his moan:
  Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
  When thus his moan he made.

  Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak
  Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
  That in some other way yon smoke
  May mount into the sky!
  The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart:
  I look—the sky is empty space;
  I know not what I trace;
  But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

  O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
  When will that dying murmur be suppress'd?
  Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
  It robs my heart of rest.
  Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,
  Into yon row of willows flit,
  Upon that alder sit;
  Or sing another song, or chuse another tree

  Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,
  And there for ever be thy waters chain'd!
  For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
  That cannot be sustain'd;
  If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
  Headlong yon waterfall must come,
  Oh let it then be dumb!—
  Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.

  Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers
  (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale)
  Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
  And stir not in the gale.
  For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
  To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
  Thus rise and thus descend,
  Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.

  The man who makes this feverish complaint
  Is one of giant stature, who could dance
  Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.
  Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
  To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
  Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk
  Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
  Such happiness as I have known to-day.

POOR SUSAN.

  At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,
  There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
  Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard
  In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

  'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
  A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
  Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
  And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

  Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
  Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail,
  And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's,
  The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.

  She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,
  The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
  The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
  And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.

  Poor Outcast! return—to receive thee once more
  The house of thy Father will open its door,
  And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
  May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.

INSCRIPTION
  For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood
  on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water.

  If thou in the dear love of some one friend
  Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts
  Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love
  Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
  This quiet spot.—St. Herbert hither came
  And here, for many seasons, from the world
  Remov'd, and the affections of the world
  He dwelt in solitude. He living here,
  This island's sole inhabitant! had left
  A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd
  As his own soul; and when within his cave
  Alone he knelt before the crucifix
  While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
  Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd
  Along the beach of this small isle and thought
  Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both
  Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
  So pray'd he:—as our Chronicles report,
  Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,
  Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
  Those holy men both died in the same hour.

INSCRIPTION
  For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.

  Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
  Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd
  Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd
  To somewhat of a closer fellowship
  With the ideal grace. Yet as it is
  Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
  Vitruvius of our village, had no help
  From the great city; never on the leaves
  Of red Morocco folio saw display'd
  The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
  Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
  Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.
  It is a homely pile, yet to these walls
  The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
  The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.

  And hither does one Poet sometimes row
  His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
  With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern,
  A lading which he with his sickle cuts
  Among the mountains, and beneath this roof
  He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
  Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep
  Panting beneath the burthen of their wool
  Lie round him, even as if they were a part
  Of his own household: nor, while from his bed
  He through that door-place looks toward the lake
  And to the stirring breezes, does he want
  Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
  Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON.

  Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
  Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
  In thy bone-house bone on bone?
  Tis already like a hill
  In a field of battle made,
  Where three thousand skulls are laid.
  —These died in peace each with the other,
  Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

  Mark the spot to which I point!
  From this platform eight feet square
  Take not even a finger-joint:
  Andrew's whole fire-side is there.

  Here, alone, before thine eyes,
  Simon's sickly Daughter lies
  From weakness, now, and pain defended,
  Whom he twenty winters tended.

  Look but at the gardener's pride,
  How he glories, when he sees
  Roses, lilies, side by side,
  Violets in families.

  By the heart of Man, his tears,
  By his hopes and by his fears,
  Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden
  Of a far superior garden.

  Thus then, each to other dear,
  Let them all in quiet lie,
  Andrew there and Susan here,
  Neighbours in mortality.

  And should I live through sun and rain
  Seven widow'd years without my Jane,
  O Sexton, do not then remove her,
  Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!

ANDREW JONES.

  I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed
  His children up to waste and pillage.
  I wish the press-gang or the drum
  With its tantara sound would come,
  And sweep him from the village!

  I said not this, because he loves
  Through the long day to swear and tipple;
  But for the poor dear sake of one
  To whom a foul deed he had done,
  A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!

  For this poor crawling helpless wretch
  Some Horseman who was passing by,
  A penny on the ground had thrown;
  But the poor Cripple was alone
  And could not stoop—no help was nigh.

  Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
  For it had long been droughty weather:
  So with his staff the Cripple wrought
  Among the dust till he had brought
  The halfpennies together.

  It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way
  Just at the time; and there he found
  The Cripple in the mid-day heat
  Standing alone, and at his feet
  He saw the penny on the ground.

  He stopp'd and took the penny up.
  And when the Cripple nearer drew,
  Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown.
  What a man finds is all his own,
  And so, my Friend, good day to you."

  And hence I said, that Andrew's boys
  Will all be train'd to waste and pillage;
  And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum
  With its tantara sound, would come
  And sweep him from the village!

The TWO THIEVES,
   Or the last Stage of AVARICE.

  Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine
  And the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne;
  When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose
  For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

  What feats would I work with my magical hand!
  Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land
  And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls
  Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

  The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair
  Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.
  For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves,
  Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

  Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old,
  His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,
  There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather
  Between them, and both go a stealing together.

  With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?
  It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door?
  Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,
  And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.

  Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye
  Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.
  'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,
  But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

  Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wires
  Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
  And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no more
  Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

  'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one
  Who went something farther than others have gone;
  And now with old Daniel you see how it fares
  You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

  The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun
  Has peer'd o'er the beeches their work is begun:
  And yet into whatever sin they may fall,
  This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

  They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,
  And each in his turn is both leader and led;
  And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
  Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

  Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam,
  For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;
  Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done,
  And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one.

  Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd,
  I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:
  Long yet may'st thou live, for a teacher we see
  That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

  A whirl-blast from behind the hill
  Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound:
  Then all at once the air was still,
  And showers of hail-stones patter'd round.

  Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above,
  I sate within an undergrove
  Of tallest hollies, tall and green,
  A fairer bower was never seen.

  From year to year the spacious floor
  With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er,
  You could not lay a hair between:
  And all the year the bower is green.

  But see! where'er the hailstones drop
  The wither'd leaves all skip and hop,
  There's not a breeze—no breath of air—
  Yet here, and there, and every where

  Along the floor, beneath the shade
  By those embowering hollies made,
  The leaves in myriads jump and spring,
  As if with pipes and music rare
  Some Robin Good-fellow were there,
  And all those leaves, that jump and spring,
  Were each a joyous, living thing.

  Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease
  That I may never cease to find,
  Even in appearances like these
  Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

SONG

FOR THE

WANDERING JEW.

  Though the torrents from their fountains
  Roar down many a craggy steep,
  Yet they find among the mountains
  Resting-places calm and deep.

  Though almost with eagle pinion
  O'er the rocks the Chamois roam.
  Yet he has some small dominion
  Which no doubt he calls his home.

  If on windy days the Raven
  Gambol like a dancing skiff,
  Not the less he loves his haven
  On the bosom of the cliff.

  Though the Sea-horse in the ocean
  Own no dear domestic cave;
  Yet he slumbers without motion
  On the calm and silent wave.

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

RUTH.

RUTH.

  When Ruth was left half desolate,
  Her Father took another Mate;
  And so, not seven years old,
  The slighted Child at her own will
  Went wandering over dale and hill
  In thoughtless freedom bold.

  And she had made a pipe of straw
  And from that oaten pipe could draw
  All sounds of winds and floods;
  Had built a bower upon the green,
  As if she from her birth had been
  An Infant of the woods.

  There came a Youth from Georgia's shore,
  A military Casque he wore
  With splendid feathers drest;
  He brought them from the Cherokees;
  The feathers nodded in the breeze
  And made a gallant crest.

  From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
  Ah no! he spake the English tongue
  And bare a Soldier's name;
  And when America was free
  From battle and from jeopardy
  He cross the ocean came.

  With hues of genius on his cheek
  In finest tones the Youth could speak.
  —While he was yet a Boy
  The moon, the glory of the sun,
  And streams that murmur as they run
  Had been his dearest joy.

  He was a lovely Youth! I guess
  The panther in the wilderness
  Was not so fair as he;
  And when he chose to sport and play,
  No dolphin ever was so gay
  Upon the tropic sea.

  Among the Indians he had fought,
  And with him many tales he brought
  Of pleasure and of fear,
  Such tales as told to any Maid
  By such a Youth in the green shade
  Were perilous to hear.

  He told of Girls, a happy rout,
  Who quit their fold with dance and shout
  Their pleasant Indian Town
  To gather strawberries all day long,
  Returning with a choral song
  When day-light is gone down.

  He spake of plants divine and strange
  That ev'ry day their blossoms change,
  Ten thousand lovely hues!
  With budding, fading, faded flowers
  They stand the wonder of the bowers
  From morn to evening dews.

  He told of the Magnolia, [6] spread
  High as a cloud, high over head!
  The Cypress and her spire,
  Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam [7]
  Cover a hundred leagues and seem
  To set the hills on fire.

[Footnote 6: Magnolia grandiflora.]

[Footnote 7: The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.]

  The Youth of green Savannahs spake,
  And many an endless endless lake
  With all its fairy crowds
  Of islands that together lie
  As quietly as spots of sky
  Among the evening clouds:

  And then he said "How sweet it were
  A fisher or a hunter there,
  A gardener in the shade,
  Still wandering with an easy mind
  To build a household fire and find
  A home in every glade."

  "What days and what sweet years! Ah me!
  Our life were life indeed, with thee
  So pass'd in quiet bliss,
  And all the while" said he "to know
  That we were in a world of woe.
  On such an earth as this!"

  And then he sometimes interwove
  Dear thoughts about a Father's love,
  "For there," said he, "are spun
  Around the heart such tender ties
  That our own children to our eyes
  Are dearer than the sun."

  Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
  My helpmate in the woods to be,
  Our shed at night to rear;
  Or run, my own adopted bride,
  A sylvan huntress at my side
  And drive the flying deer.

  "Beloved Ruth!" No more he said
  Sweet Ruth alone at midnight shed
  A solitary tear,
  She thought again—and did agree
  With him to sail across the sea,
  And drive the flying deer.

  "And now, as fitting is and right,
  We in the Church our faith will plight,
  A Husband and a Wife."
  Even so they did; and I may say
  That to sweet Ruth that happy day
  Was more than human life.

  Through dream and vision did she sink,
  Delighted all the while to think
  That on those lonesome floods
  And green Savannahs she should share
  His board with lawful joy, and bear
  His name in the wild woods.

  But, as you have before been told,
  This Stripling, sportive gay and bold,
  And, with his dancing crest,
  So beautiful, through savage lands
  Had roam'd about with vagrant bands
  Of Indians in the West.

  The wind, the tempest roaring high,
  The tumult of a tropic sky
  Might well be dangerous food.
  For him, a Youth to whom was given
  So much of earth so much of Heaven,
  And such impetuous blood.

  Whatever in those climes he found
  Irregular in sight or sound
  Did to his mind impart
  A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
  To his own powers, and justified
  The workings of his heart.

  Nor less to feed voluptuous thought
  The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,
  Fair trees and lovely flowers;
  The breezes their own languor lent,
  The stars had feelings which they sent
  Into those magic bowers.

  Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween,
  That sometimes there did intervene
  Pure hopes of high intent:
  For passions link'd to forms so fair
  And stately, needs must have their share
  Of noble sentiment.

  But ill he liv'd, much evil saw
  With men to whom no better law
  Nor better life was known;
  Deliberately and undeceiv'd
  Those wild men's vices he receiv'd,
  And gave them back his own.

  His genius and his moral frame
  Were thus impair'd, and he became
  The slave of low desires;
  A man who without self-controul
  Would seek what the degraded soul
  Unworthily admires.

  And yet he with no feign'd delight
  Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night
  Had luv'd her, night and morn;
  What could he less than love a Maid
  Whose heart with so much nature play'd
  So kind and so forlorn?

  But now the pleasant dream was gone,
  No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,
  They stirr'd him now no more,
  New objects did new pleasure give,
  And once again he wish'd to live
  As lawless as before.

  Meanwhile as thus with him it fared.
  They for the voyage were prepared
  And went to the sea-shore,
  But, when they thither came, the Youth
  Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth
  Could never find him more.

  "God help thee Ruth!"—Such pains she had
  That she in half a year was mad
  And in a prison hous'd,
  And there, exulting in her wrongs,
  Among the music of her songs
  She fearfully carouz'd.

  Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
  Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
  Nor pastimes of the May,
  They all were with her in her cell,
  And a wild brook with chearful knell
  Did o'er the pebbles play.

  When Ruth three seasons thus had lain
  There came a respite to her pain,
  She from her prison fled;
  But of the Vagrant none took thought,
  And where it liked her best she sought
  Her shelter and her bread.

  Among the fields she breath'd again:
  The master-current of her brain
  Ran permanent and free,
  And to the pleasant Banks of Tone [8]
  She took her way, to dwell alone
  Under the greenwood tree.

  The engines of her grief, the tools
  That shap'd her sorrow, rocks and pools,
  And airs that gently stir
  The vernal leaves, she loved them still,
  Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
  Which had been done to her.

[Footnote 8: The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods.]

  A Barn her winter bed supplies,
  But till the warmth of summer skies
  And summer days is gone,
  (And in this tale we all agree)
  She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
  And other home hath none.

  If she is press'd by want of food
  She from her dwelling in the wood
  Repairs to a road side,
  And there she begs at one steep place,
  Where up and down with easy pace
  The horsemen-travellers ride.

  That oaten pipe of hers is mute
  Or thrown away, but with a flute
  Her loneliness she cheers;
  This flute made of a hemlock stalk
  At evening in his homeward walk
  The Quantock Woodman hears.

  I, too have pass'd her on the hills
  Setting her little water-mills
  By spouts and fountains wild,
  Such small machinery as she turn'd
  Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd
  A young and happy Child!

  Farewel! and when thy days are told
  Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mold
  Thy corpse shall buried be,
  For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
  And all the congregation sing
  A Christian psalm for thee.

LINES
  Written with a Slate-pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap
  lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale.

  Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones
  Is not a ruin of the ancient time,
  Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
  Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
  Than the rude embryo of a little dome
  Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built
  Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
  But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd
  That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
  And make himself a freeman of this spot
  At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith
  Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
  Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.—
  The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps,
  Was once selected as the corner-stone
  Of the intended pile, which would have been
  Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill,
  So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
  And other little builders who dwell here,
  Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not,
  For old Sir William was a gentle Knight
  Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd
  With all his ancestry. Then peace to him
  And for the outrage which he had devis'd
  Entire forgiveness.—But if thou art one
  On fire with thy impatience to become
  An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd
  By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
  Out of the quiet rock the elements
  Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze
  In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught
  By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
  Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose,
  There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
  And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.

In the School of —— is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.

  If Nature, for a favorite Child
  In thee hath temper'd so her clay,
  That every hour thy heart runs wild
  Yet never once doth go astray,

  Read o'er these lines; and then review
  This tablet, that thus humbly rears
  In such diversity of hue
  Its history of two hundred years.

  —When through this little wreck of fame,
  Cypher and syllable, thine eye
  Has travell'd down to Matthew's name,
  Pause with no common sympathy.

  And if a sleeping tear should wake
  Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd:
  For Matthew a request I make
  Which for himself he had not made.

  Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
  Is silent as a standing pool,
  Far from the chimney's merry roar,
  And murmur of the village school.

  The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs
  Of one tir'd out with fun and madness;
  The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
  Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.

  Yet sometimes when the secret cup
  Of still and serious thought went round
  It seem'd as if he drank it up,
  He felt with spirit so profound.

  —Thou soul of God's best earthly mould,
  Thou happy soul, and can it be
  That these two words of glittering gold
  Are all that must remain of thee?

The Two April Mornings.

  We walk'd along, while bright and red
  Uprose the morning sun,
  And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said,
  "The will of God be done!"

  A village Schoolmaster was he,
  With hair of glittering grey;
  As blithe a man as you could see
  On a spring holiday.

  And on that morning, through the grass,
  And by the steaming rills,
  We travell'd merrily to pass
  A day among the hills.

  "Our work," said I, "was well begun;
  Then, from thy breast what thought,
  Beneath so beautiful a sun,
  So sad a sigh has brought?"

  A second time did Matthew stop,
  And fixing still his eye
  Upon the eastern mountain-top
  To me he made reply.

  Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
  Brings fresh into my mind
  A day like this which I have left
  Full thirty years behind.

  And on that slope of springing corn
  The self-same crimson hue
  Fell from the sky that April morn,
  The same which now I view!

  With rod and line my silent sport
  I plied by Derwent's wave,
  And, coming to the church, stopp'd short
  Beside my Daughter's grave.

  Nine summers had she scarcely seen
  The pride of all the vale;
  And then she sang!—she would have been
  A very nightingale.

  Six feet in earth my Emma lay,
  And yet I lov'd her more,
  For so it seem'd, than till that day
  I e'er had lov'd before.

  And, turning from her grave, I met
  Beside the church-yard Yew
  A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
  With points of morning dew.

The FOUNTAIN,
  A Conversation.

  We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
  Affectionate and true,
  A pair of Friends, though I was young,
  And Matthew seventy-two.

  We lay beneath a spreading oak,
  Beside a mossy seat,
  And from the turf a fountain broke,
  And gurgled at our feet.

  Now, Matthew, let us try to match
  This water's pleasant tune
  With some old Border-song, or catch
  That suits a summer's noon.

  Or of the Church-clock and the chimes
  Sing here beneath the shade,
  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
  Which you last April made!

  On silence Matthew lay, and eyed
  The spring beneath the tree;
  And thus the dear old Man replied,
  The grey-hair'd Man of glee.

  "Down to the vale this water steers,
  How merrily it goes!
  Twill murmur on a thousand years,
  And flow as now it flows."

  And here, on this delightful day,
  I cannot chuse but think
  How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay
  Beside this Fountain's brink.

  My eyes are dim with childish tears.
  My heart is idly stirr'd,
  For the same sound is in my ears,
  Which in those days I heard.

  Thus fares it still in our decay:
  And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away
  Than what it leaves behind.

  The blackbird in the summer trees,
  The lark upon the hill,
  Let loose their carols when they please,
  Are quiet when they will.

  With Nature never do they wage
  A foolish strife; they see
  A happy youth, and their old age
  Is beautiful and free:

  But we are press'd by heavy laws,
  And often, glad no more,
  We wear a face of joy, because
  We have been glad of yore.

  If there is one who need bemoan
  His kindred laid in earth,
  The houshold hearts that were his own,
  It is the man of mirth.

  "My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
  My life has been approv'd,
  And many love me, but by none
  Am I enough belov'd."

  "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
  The man who thus complains!
  I live and sing my idle songs
  Upon these happy plains,"

  "And, Matthew, for thy Children dead
  I'll be a son to thee!"
  At this he grasp'd his hands, and said,
  "Alas! that cannot be."

  We rose up from the fountain-side,
  And down the smooth descent
  Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
  And through the wood we went,

  And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
  He sang those witty rhymes
  About the crazy old church-clock
  And the bewilder'd chimes.