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

I to the muses have been bound, These fourteen years, by strong indentures; Oh gentle muses! let me tell But half of what to him befel, For sure he met with strange adventures.

Oh gentle muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended leave me? Ye muses! whom I love so well.

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

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

And that's the very pony too. Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring water-fall she hears, And cannot find her idiot boy.

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

And Betty sees the pony too: Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, 'Tis he whom you so long have lost, He whom you love, your idiot boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pony, Betty, and her boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale: And who is she, be-times abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought, And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her messenger and nurse; And as her mind grew worse and worse, Her body it grew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING.

How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening-twilight's summer hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The boat her silent path pursues! And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past, so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterer beguiling.

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

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

Vain thought! yet be as now thou art, That in thy waters may be seen The image of a poet's heart, How bright, how solemn, how serene! Such heart did once the poet bless, Who, pouring here a[3] later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress, But in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we glide along, For him suspend the dashing oar, And pray that never child of Song May know his freezing sorrows more. How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended! —The evening darkness gathers round By virtue's holiest powers attended.

[3] Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

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

"Where are your books? that light bequeath'd "To beings else forlorn and blind! "Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd "From dead men to their kind.

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sweet is the lore which nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.



OLD MAN TRAVELLING; ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY, A SKETCH.

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



THE COMPLAINT OF A FORSAKEN INDIAN WOMAN

[When a Northern Indian, from sickness, is unable to continue his journey with his companions; he is left behind, covered over with Deer-skins, and is supplied with water, food, and fuel if the situation of the place will afford it. He is informed of the track which his companions intend to pursue, and if he is unable to follow, or overtake them, he perishes alone in the Desart; unless he should have the good fortune to fall in with some other Tribes of Indians. It is unnecessary to add that the females are equally, or still more, exposed to the same fate. See that very interesting work, Hearne's Journey from Hudson's Bay to the Northern Ocean. When the Northern Lights, as the same writer informs us, vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.]

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

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

Alas! you might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon despair o'er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; When you were gone my limbs were stronger, And Oh how grievously I rue, That, afterwards, a little longer, My friends, I did not follow you! For strong and without pain I lay, My friends, when you were gone away.

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

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

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

My journey will be shortly run, I shall not see another sun, I cannot lift my limbs to know If they have any life or no. My poor forsaken child! if I For once could have thee close to me, With happy heart I then would die, And my last thoughts would happy be, I feel my body die away, I shall not see another day.



THE CONVICT.

The glory of evening was spread through the west; —On the slope of a mountain I stood; While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest Rang loud through the meadow and wood.

"And must we then part from a dwelling so fair?" In the pain of my spirit I said, And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair To the cell where the convict is laid.

The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate Resound; and the dungeons unfold: I pause; and at length, through the glimmering grate, That outcast of pity behold.

His black matted head on his shoulder is bent, And deep is the sigh of his breath, And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent On the fetters that link him to death.

'Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze. That body dismiss'd from his care; Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pourtrays More terrible images there.

His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, With wishes the past to undo; And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, descried, Still blackens and grows on his view.

When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, To his chamber the monarch is led, All soothers of sense their soft virtue shall yield, And quietness pillow his head.

But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, And conscience her tortures appease, 'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose; In the comfortless vault of disease.

When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs, That the weight can no longer be borne, If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, The wretch on his pallet should turn,

While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, From the roots of his hair there shall start A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain, And terror shall leap at his heart.

But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, And the motion unsettles a tear; The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, And asks of me why I am here.

"Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood "With o'erweening complacence our state to compare, "But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, "Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share.

"At thy name though compassion her nature resign, "Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, "My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, "Would plant thee where yet thou might'st blossom again."



LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR, July 13, 1798.

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur.[4]—Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, Which on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits, Among the woods and copses lose themselves, Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees, With some uncertain notice, as might seem, Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone.

Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me, As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart, And passing even into my purer mind With tranquil restoration:—feelings too Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life; His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope Though changed, no doubt, from what I was, when first I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led; more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by,) To me was all in all.—I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite: a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompence. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man, A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half-create,[5] And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being.

Nor, perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our chearful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance, If I should be, where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came, Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.

[4] The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern.

[5] This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.



END.