VII.

This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the Sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with Marineres That come from a far Contrée.

He kneels at morn and noon and eve-- He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss, that wholly hides The rotted old Oak-stump.

The Skiff-boat ne’rd: I heard them talk, “Why, this is strange, I trow! “Where are those lights so many and fair “That signal made but now?

“Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said-- “And they answer’d not our cheer. “The planks look warp’d, and see those sails “How thin they are and sere! “I never saw aught like to them “Unless perchance it were

“The skeletons of leaves that lag “My forest brook along: “When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow, “And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below “That eats the she-wolf’s young.

“Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look”-- (The Pilot made reply) “I am a-fear’d.--“Push on, push on!” Said the Hermit cheerily.

The Boat came closer to the Ship, But I ne spake ne stirr’d! The Boat came close beneath the Ship, And strait a sound was heard!

Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reach’d the Ship, it split the bay; The Ship went down like lead.

Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote: Like one that hath been seven days drown’d My body lay afloat: But, swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot’s boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship, The boat spun round and round: And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I mov’d my lips: the Pilot shriek’d And fell down in a fit. The Holy Hermit rais’d his eyes And pray’d where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh’d loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro, “Ha! ha!” quoth he--“full plain I see, “The devil knows how to row.”

And now all in mine own Countrée I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

“O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!” The Hermit cross’d his brow-- “Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say “What manner man art thou?”

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d With a woeful agony, Which forc’d me to begin my tale And then it left me free.

Since then at an uncertain hour, Now oftimes and now fewer, That anguish comes and makes me tell My ghastly aventure.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; The moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me; To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door! The Wedding-guests are there; But in the Garden-bower the Bride And Bride-maids singing are: And hark the little Vesper-bell Which biddeth me to prayer.

O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ’twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the Marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk With a goodly company.

To walk together to the Kirk And all together pray, While each to his great father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And Youths, and Maidens gay.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou wedding-guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best, All things both great and small: For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

The Marinere, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the wedding-guest Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door.

He went, like one that hath been stunn’d And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

THE FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.

FOSTER-MOTHER. I never saw the man whom you describe.

MARIA. ’Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly As mine and Albert’s common Foster-mother.

FOSTER-MOTHER. Now blessings on the man, whoe’er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, As often as I think of those dear times When you two little ones would stand at eve On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you-- ’Tis more like heaven to come than what _has_ been.

MARIA. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye She gazes idly!--But that entrance, Mother!

FOSTER-MOTHER. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

MARIA. No one.

FOSTER-MOTHER My husband’s father told it me, Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy, but most unteachable-- And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn ’twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, A grey-haired man--he loved this little boy, The boy loved him--and, when the Friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen: and from that time, Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. So he became a very learned youth. But Oh! poor wretch!--he read, and read, and read, ’Till his brain turned--and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place-- But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him. And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chained in deep discourse, The earth heaved under them with such a groan, That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened; A fever seized him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized And cast into that hole. My husband’s father Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart: And once as he was working in the cellar, He heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’s, Who sung a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty. He always doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described: And the young man escaped.

MARIA. ’Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.-- And what became of him?

FOSTER-MOTHER. He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne’er was heard of more: but ’tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men.

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

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

--Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o’er, and taught this aged tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember.--He was one who own’d No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er, Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene; how lovely ’tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument.

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

THE NIGHTINGALE;

A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring: it flows silently O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, “Most musical, most melancholy”[1] Bird! A melancholy Bird? O idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy. --But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’d With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper or neglected love, (And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himself And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Of his own sorrows) he and such as he First nam’d these notes a melancholy strain; And many a poet echoes the conceit, Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretch’d his limbs Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell By sun or moonlight, to the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song And of his fame forgetful! so his fame Should share in nature’s immortality, A venerable thing! and so his song Should make all nature lovelier, and itself Be lov’d, like nature!--But ’twill not be so; And youths and maidens most poetical Who lose the deep’ning twilights of the spring In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs O’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains. My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learnt A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature’s sweet voices always full of love And joyance! ’Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, As he were fearful, that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music! And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge Which the great lord inhabits not: and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew So many Nightingales: and far and near In wood and thicket over the wide grove They answer and provoke each other’s songs-- With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug jug And one low piping sound more sweet than all-- Stirring the air with such an harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos’d, You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch.

A most gentle maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, (Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon Emerging, hath awaken’d earth and sky With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’d Many a Nightingale perch giddily On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.--That strain again! Full fain it would delay me!--My dear Babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature’s playmate. He knows well The evening star: and once when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream) I hurried with him to our orchard plot, And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at once Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well-- It is a father’s tale. But if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate Joy! Once more farewell, Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

[1] “_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.

THE FEMALE VAGRANT.

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

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

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

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

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

But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate’er he bought and sold: His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay. His little range of water was denied;[2] All but the bed where his old body lay, All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress’d, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. The very ocean has its hour of rest, That comes not to the human mourner’s breast. Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, A heavenly silence did the waves invest; I looked and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke, Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke! The shriek that from the distant battle broke! The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss’d, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[2] Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines drawn from rock to rock.

GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.

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

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

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

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, And then her three hours’ work at night! Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. --This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage, But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. ’Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the _canty_ dame Would sit, as any linnet gay.

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

Oh joy for her! when e’er in winter The winds at night had made a rout, And scatter’d many a lusty splinter, And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile before-hand, wood or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple child, dear brother Jim, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl, She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster’d round her head.

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

“Sisters and brothers, little maid, “How many may you be?” “How many? seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me.

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

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

“You say that two at Conway dwell, “And two are gone to sea, “Yet you are seven; I pray you tell “Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

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

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

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

“My stockings there I often knit, “My ’kerchief there I hem; “And there upon the ground I sit-- “I sit and sing to them.

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

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

“So in the church-yard she was laid, “And all the summer dry, “Together round her grave we played, “My brother John and I.

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

“How many are you then,” said I, “If they two are in Heaven?” The little Maiden did reply, “O Master! we are seven.”

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

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

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

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

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

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

If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?

THE THORN.