[264:1] First published in Lyrical Ballads, 1798, reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1800, 1802, and 1805: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[264:2] 'Most musical, most melancholy.' This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description; it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton; a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible. Footnote to l. 13 L. B. 1798, L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829. In 1834 the footnote ends with the word 'Milton', the last sentence being omitted.
LINENOTES:
Note. In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The Nightingale' is omitted.
Title] The Nightingale; a Conversational Poem, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1798: The Nightingale, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1800: The Nightingale A Conversation Poem, written in April, 1798 S. L., 1828, 1829.
sorrow] sorrows L. B. 1798, 1800.
My Friend, and my Friend's sister L. B. 1798, 1800.
song] songs L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.
And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all—S. L. 1817: (punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds:—And one low piping Sound more sweet than all—Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
a] an all editions to 1884.
On moonlight . . . her love-torch om. L. B. 1800.
those] these S. L. 1817.
As if one quick and sudden gale had swept L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.
A] An all editions to 1834.
blossomy] blosmy L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.
beheld] beholds L. B. 1798, 1800.
THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE
'The Author has published the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale.[268:1] Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological. The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows:—
'Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter (the father died in their infancy), retaining for the greater part her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable—"Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistook[268:2] her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion—"O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you—she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you." The Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse both on him and on her own child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran upstairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was married to him.—And here the third part of the Tale begins.
'I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effects of the Oby witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.
'The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of God is infinite.[269:1]"' S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.
This thorn that blooms so sweet,
We loved to stretch our lazy limbs
In summer's noon-tide heat.
The maiden and her feer,
'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why
The toad has harbour here.
But still it blossoms sweet; 10
Then tell me why all round its roots
The dock and nettle meet.
Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15
Stretch out so green and dark a length,
By any foot unworn.'
Beneath the flowery thorn;
And there a barren wife is laid, 20
And there a maid forlorn.
Did love each other dear;
The ruthless mother wrought the woe,
And cost them many a tear. 25
Her temper mild and even,
And Mary, graceful as the fir
That points the spire to heaven.
'I would you were my bride,'
And she was scarlet as he spoke,
And turned her face to hide.
And you have little gear; 35
And go and if she say not Nay,
Then I will be your fere.'
To him the mother said:
'In truth you are a comely man; 40
You shall my daughter wed.'
Did bear a sister's part;
For why, though not akin in blood,
They sisters were in heart.] 45
That ever shed a tear
What passed within the lover's heart
The happy day so near.
Rejoiced when they were by;
And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2]
Beneath the mother's eye.
How deep they drank of joy: 55
The mother fed upon the sight,
Nor . . . [sic in MS.]
The wedding-ring was bought;
The wedding-cake with her own hand 60
The ruthless mother brought.
The maid shall be a bride';
Thus Edward to the mother spake
While she sate by his side. 65
The mother's colour fled,
For Mary's foot was heard above—
She decked the bridal bed.
To meet her at the door,
With steady step the mother rose,
And silent left the bower.
And when her child drew near— 75
'Away! away!' the mother cried,
'Ye shall not enter here.
And rob me of my mate?'
And on her child the mother scowled 80
A deadly leer of hate.
The wretched maiden stood,
As pale as any ghost of night
That wanteth flesh and blood. 85
She did not shed a tear,
Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why
May I not enter here?'
As if her sense was fled,
And then her trembling limbs she threw
Upon the bridal bed.
Where he sate in the bower, 95
And said, 'That woman is not fit
To be your paramour.
With grief and trouble swell;
I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100
For never worse befel.
And of an envious mind;
A wily hypocrite she is,
And giddy as the wind. 105
You'll rue the bitter smart;
For she will wrong your marriage-bed,
And she will break your heart.
Her deadly sin so long;
She is my child, and therefore I
As mother held my tongue.
My living soul's estate: 115
I cannot say my daily prayers,
The burthen is so great.
Until her back was bare;
And should you swing for lust of hers 120
In truth she'd little care.'
And took him by the hand:
'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's
I'd give my house and land. 125
And take me for your bride,
I'll make you heir of all I have—
Nothing shall be denied.'
And he laughed loud and long—
'In truth, good mother, you are mad,
Or drunk with liquor strong.'
But on her knees she fell, 135
And fetched her breath while thrice your hand
Might toll the passing-bell.
Whom in my womb I bore,
May every drop of thy heart's blood 140
Be curst for ever more.
I heard thee wawl and cry;
And in the Church-yard curséd be
The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145
Her mother's curse had heard;
And while the cruel mother spake
The bed beneath her stirred.
And turning round he sees
The mother looking up to God
And still upon her knees.
When on the bed she lay: 155
'Sweet love, this is a wicked house—
Sweet love, we must away.'
All pale and wan with fear;
'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160
No Dog would kennel here.'
He led her from the stairs.
[Had sense been hers she had not dar'd
To venture on her prayers. MS. erased.]
And with a greedy heart 165
She drank perdition on her knees,
Which never may depart.
On God she did not call;
She did forget the God of Heaven, 170
For they were in the hall.
Did see her when she rose;
And she has oft declared to me
The blood within her froze. 175
And hurried to the door,
The ruthless mother springing forth
Stopped midway on the floor.
For with a smile she cried:
'Unblest ye shall not pass my door,
The bride-groom and his bride.
As flies when fruits are red; 185
May God forbid that thought of me
Should haunt your marriage-bed.
The day be given to glee:
I am a woman weak and old, 190
Why turn a thought on me?
And what have ye to dread?
A curse is wind, it hath no shape
To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195
She rent her hoary hair,
And foamed like any Dog of June
When sultry sun-beams glare.
And why the maid forlorn,
And why the ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn?
In spite of bolt or bar, 205
Did from beneath the belfry come,
When spirits wandering are.
By howling fiends was borne,
This spade was seen to mark her grave 210
Beneath the flowery thorn.
Called home the maid forlorn,
This spade was seen to mark her grave
Beneath the flowery thorn. 215
The ghosts that round it meet,
'Tis they that cut the rind at night,
Yet still it blossoms sweet.
[End of MS.]
Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.
Still swung the spikes of corn: 225
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday—
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over boughed, 230
For half a mile or more.
The bride and bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seemed cheerful and content. 235
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.
Her limbs did creep and freeze:
But when they prayed, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
I saw poor Mary's back, 245
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
The married maiden set:
That moment—I have heard her say— 250
She wished she could forget.
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seemed to stop her breath. 255
No child could ever thrive:
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man
And Mary a fond wife.
My mother says her nay: 265
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
I know I have no reason! 270
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season.'
And on the few fine days
She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275
Her mother in the ways.
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheery. 280
More dear than any sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always missed her. 285
But few to church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
To Ellen's seat she went: 295
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300
And all be reconciled!'
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a moon,
I've seen the church more light. 305
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swinging over head,
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And audibly she cried—
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
Although you take my life— 315
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.
O let her curséd be!!!'
So having prayed, steady and slow, 320
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.
So pale! I guessed not why: 325
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330
A trouble in her eye.
She smiled and told us why:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,'
Quoth she, 'and what care I?' 335
Ere from the door she stept—
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
This was her constant cry—
'It was a wicked woman's curse—
God's good, and what care I?'
Her struggles she redoubled: 345
'It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?'
When 'twas the merest fairy—
Good creature! and she hid it all: 350
She told it not to Mary.
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you!' 355
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatched a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
His farm lies underneath: 365
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnashed his teeth.
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375
Upon his heart did strike!
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife. 380
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.
I hold it no good mark; 390
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
The Lord, he takes away:
O Sir! the child of my old age 395
Lies there as cold as clay.
That was not dug by me;
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three! 400
You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more:
She managed all the dairy.
To church on Sundays came; 415
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward looked as if he thought 420
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
Must sing some merry rhyme;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time. 425
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And then her wrist she spanned;
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently pressed her hand; 435
Did gripe like a convulsion!
'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!'
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
Had she the words to smother: 445
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'
Could make this sad house cheery;
And Mary's melancholy ways 450
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him. 455
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
Upon his knees in prayer: 465
'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!'
Old sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring 470
Was late uncommonly.
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough. 475
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.
As of an arbour took, 485
A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490
Just as the first bell rung.
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell. 495
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep. 500
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.
See, dearest Ellen! see!
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your ee;
A perfect glory too; 510
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory gay and bright
Round that small orb, so blue.'
What colour they might be; 515
Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,
'They're amber-like to me.'
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520
And the thumping in his breast.
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain. 525
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.
Had had time to depart,
'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)
'I have torn out her heart.'
Into ungentle laughter; 535
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.
1797-1809.
Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!