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 panniered 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.



THE DUNGEON.

And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom To each poor brother who offends against us— Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty? Is this the only cure? Merciful God! Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot. Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks— And this is their best cure! uncomforted.

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears. And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O nature!' Healest thy wandering and distempered child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences. Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sheets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of love and beauty.



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 dwindled 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 bounds 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've 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 endeavoured.

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.



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 NIGHTINGALE. 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" [4] 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 named these notes a melancholy strain: And many a poet echoes the conceit; Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme

[Footnote 4: "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.]

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 Hi? 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!

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, At 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.



LINES Written when sailing in a Boat At EVENING.

How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening twilights 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?



LINES Written near Richmond upon the Thames.

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 as did once the poet bless, Who, pouring here a later ditty, Could find no refuge from distress, But in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we float 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. [5]

[Footnote 5: 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.]



THE IDIOT BOY.

The IDIOT BOY.

'Tis eight o'clock,—a clear March night, The moon is up—the sky is blue, The owlet in the moonlight air, He shouts from nobody knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

—Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy? Why are you in this mighty fret? And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

Beneath the moon that shines so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; Good Betty put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you, But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.

But Betty's bent on her intent, For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile, No hand to help them in distress; Old Susan lies a bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale, What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched Her pony, that is mild and good, Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing faggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim, And by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has up upon the saddle set, The like was never heard of yet, Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

And he must post without delay Across the bridge that's in the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand, For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o'er and o'er has told The boy who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you Come home again, nor stop at all, Come home again, whate'er befal, My Johnny do, I pray you do."

To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head, and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too, And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the pony's side, On which her idiot boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor idiot boy! For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy.

And while the pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left hand you may see, The green bough's motionless and dead: The moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemanship, Oh! happy, happy, happy John.

And Betty's standing at the door, And Betty's face with joy o'erflows, Proud of herself, and proud of him, She sees him in his travelling trim; How quietly her Johnny goes.

The silence of her idiot boy, What hopes it sends to Betty's heart! He's at the guide-post—he turns right, She watches till he's out of sight, And Betty will not then depart.

Burr, burr—now Johnny's lips they burr, As loud as any mill, or near it, Meek as a lamb the pony moves, And Johnny makes the noise he loves, And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

Away she hies to Susan Gale: And Johnny's in a merry tune, The owlets hoot, the owlets purr, And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr, And on he goes beneath the moon.

His steed and he right well agree, For of this pony there's a rumour, That should he lose his eyes and ears, And should he live a thousand years, He never will be out of humour.

But then he is a horse that thinks! And when he thinks his pace is slack; Now, though he knows poor Johnny well, Yet for his life he cannot tell What he has got upon his back.

So through the moonlight lanes they go, And far into the moonlight dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And Betty, now at Susan's side, Is in the middle of her story, What comfort Johnny soon will bring, With many a most diverting thing, Of Johnny's wit and Johnny's glory.

And Betty's still at Susan's side: By this time she's not quite so flurried; Demure with porringer and plate She sits, as if in Susan's fate Her life and soul were buried.

But Betty, poor good woman! she, You plainly in her face may read it, Could lend out of that moment's store Five years of happiness or more, To any that might need it.

But yet I guess that now and then With Betty all was not so well, And to the road she turns her ears, And thence full many a sound she hears, Which she to Susan will not tell.

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, "As sure as there's a moon in heaven," Cries Betty, "he'll be back again; They'll both be here, 'tis almost ten, They'll both be here before eleven."

Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans, The clock gives warning for eleven; 'Tis on the stroke—"If Johnny's near," Quoth Betty "he will soon be here, As sure as there's a moon in heaven."

The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight, The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees, But Betty is not quite at ease; And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago, On Johnny vile reflections cast: "A little idle sauntering thing!" With other names, an endless string. But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart. That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late? The Doctor he has made him wait, Susan! they'll both be here anon."

And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad quandary; And then there's nobody to say If she must go or she must stay: —She's in a sad quandary.

The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his guide Appear along the moonlight road, There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Betty's still at Susan's side.

And Susan she begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drown'd, Or lost perhaps, and never found; Which they must both for ever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said Cried Betty, rising from the bed, "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you."

"I must be gone, I must away, Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; Susan, we must take care of him, If he is hurt in life or limb"— "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

"What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; I fear you're in a dreadful way, But I shall soon be back again."

"Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies, but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again.

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, In tree and tower was Johnny seen, In bush and brake, in black and green, 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

She's past the bridge that's in the dale, And now the thought torments her sore, Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon that's in the brook, And never will be heard of more.

And now she's high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his horse, Among the fern or in the gorse; There's neither doctor nor his guide.

"Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; Or sadly he has been misled, And joined the wandering gypsey-folk."

"Or him that wicked pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblins' hall, Or in the castle he's pursuing, Among the ghosts, his own undoing; Or playing with the waterfall,"

At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; "If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still, My Johnny, till my dying day."

Poor Betty! in this sad distemper, The doctor's self would hardly spare, Unworthy things she talked and wild, Even he, of cattle the most mild, The pony had his share.

And now she's got into the town, And to the doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, Is silent as the skies.

And now she's at the doctor's door, She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap, The doctor at the casement shews, His glimmering eyes that peep and doze; And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, And I have lost my poor dear boy, You know him—him you often see;"

"He's not so wise as some folks be," "The devil take his wisdom!" said The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, "What, woman! should I know of him?" And, grumbling, he went back to bed.

"O woe is me! O woe is me! Here will I die; here will I die; I thought to find my Johnny here, But he is neither far nor near, Oh! what a wretched mother I!"

She stops, she stands, she looks about, Which way to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain If she had heart to knock again; —The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!

Then up along the town she hies, No wonder if her senses fail, This piteous news so much it shock'd her, She quite forgot to send the Doctor, To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down, And she can see a mile of road, "Oh cruel! I'm almost three-score; Such night as this was ne'er before, There's not a single soul abroad."

She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man; The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now if e'er you can.

The owlets through the long blue night Are shouting to each other still: Fond lovers, yet not quite hob nob, They lengthen out the tremulous sob, That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope, Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin; A green-grown pond she just has pass'd, And from the brink she hurries fast, Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps; Such tears she never shed before; "Oh dear, dear pony! my sweet joy! Oh carry back my idiot boy! And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

A thought it come into her head; "The pony he is mild and good, And we have always used him well; Perhaps he's gone along the dell, And carried Johnny to the wood."

Then up she springs as if on wings; She thinks no more of deadly sin; If Betty fifty ponds should see, The last of all her thoughts would be, To drown herself therein.

Oh reader! now that I might tell What Johnny and his horse are doing! What they've been doing all this time, Oh could I put it into rhyme, A most delightful tale pursuing!

Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! He with his pony now doth roam The cliffs and peaks so high that are, To lay his hands upon a star, And in his pocket bring it home.

Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And still and mute, in wonder lost, All like a silent horse-man ghost, He travels on along the vale.

And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep, A fierce and dreadful hunter he! Yon valley, that's so trim and green, In five months' time, should he be seen, A desart wilderness will be.

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.



LOVE.

All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights, Whatever stirs this mortal Frame, All are but Ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the Mount I lay Beside the Ruin'd Tower.

The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the Lights of Eve; And she was there, my Hope, my Joy, My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the Armed Man, The Statue of the Armed Knight: She stood and listen'd to my Harp Amid the ling'ring Light.

Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The Songs, that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful Air, I sang an old and moving Story— An old rude Song that fitted well The Ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush, With downcast Eyes and modest Grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her Face.

I told her of the Knight, that wore Upon his Shield a burning Brand; And that for ten long Years he woo'd The Lady of the Land.

I told her, how he pin'd: and, ah! The low, the deep, the pleading tone, With which I sang another's Love, Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting Blush, With downcast Eyes and modest Grace; And she forgave me, that I gaz'd Too fondly on her Face!

But when I told the cruel scorn Which craz'd this bold and lovely Knight, And that be cross'd the mountain woods Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage Den, And sometimes from the darksome Shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny Glade,

There came, and look'd him in the face, An Angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew, it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did, He leapt amid a murd'rous Band, And sav'd from Outrage worse than Death The Lady of the Land;

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The Scorn, that craz'd his Brain

And that she nurs'd him in a Cave; And how his Madness went away When on the yellow forest leaves A dying Man he lay;

His dying words—but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the Ditty, My falt'ring Voice and pausing Harp Disturb'd her Soul with Pity!

All Impulses of Soul and Sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve, The Music, and the doleful Tale, The rich and balmy Eve;

And Hopes, and Fears that kindle Hope, An undistinguishable Throng! And gentle Wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight, She blush'd with love and maiden shame; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her Bosom heav'd—she stepp'd aside; As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd— Then suddenly with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms, She press'd me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head look'd up, And gaz'd upon my face.

'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, And partly 'twas a bashful Art That I might rather feel than see The Swelling of her Heart.

I calm'd her Tears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin Pride. And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride!



The MAD MOTHER.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main. She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear! I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be, To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe."

A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me. But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see! For he was here, and only he.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away. Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers press'd. The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy! Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie, for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die.

Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide. I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And if from me thou wilt not go. But still be true 'till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou will live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.

Dread not their taunts, my little life! I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty. If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stay'd: From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man! is wretched made, And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings. My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill. —Where art thou gone my own dear child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear mother am. My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We'll find thy father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe; we'll live for aye.



THE ANCIENT MARINER,

A POET'S REVERIE.

ARGUMENT.

How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by Storms, to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient Mariner cruelly, and in contempt of the laws of hospitality, killed a Sea-bird; and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements; and in what manner he came back to his own Country.



The ANCIENT MARINER.

A POET'S REVERIE.

I.

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three: "By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye Now wherefore stoppest me?"

"The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide And I am next of kin; The Guests are met, the Feast is set,— May'st hear the merry din."

But still he holds the wedding guest— "There was a Ship, quoth he—" "Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, Mariner! come with me."

He holds him with his skinny hand, Quoth he, there was a Ship— "Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon Or my Staff shall make thee skip."

He holds him with his glittering eye— The wedding guest stood still And listens like a three year's child; The Mariner hath his will.

The wedding-guest sate on a stone, He cannot chuse but hear: And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

The Ship was cheer'd, the Harbour clear'd— Merrily did we drop Below the Kirk, below the Hill, Below the Light-house top.

The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the Sea came he: And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the Sea.

Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon— The wedding-guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

The Bride hath pac'd into the Hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry Minstralsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot chuse but hear: And thus spake on that ancient Man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

But now the Northwind came more fierce, There came a Tempest strong! And Southward still for days and weeks Like Chaff we drove along.

And now there came both Mist and Snow, And it grew wond'rous cold; And Ice mast-high came floating by As green as Emerald.

And thro' the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The Ice was all between.

The Ice was here, the Ice was there, The Ice was all around: It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd— A wild and ceaseless sound.

At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the Fog it came; As if it had been a Christian Soul, We hail'd it in God's name.

The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms, And round and round it flew: The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit; The Helmsman steer'd us thro'.

And a good south wind sprung up behind. The Albatross did follow; And every day for food or play Came to the Mariner's hollo!

In mist or cloud on mast or shroud It perch'd for vespers nine, Whiles all the night thro' fog-smoke white Glimmer'd the white moon-shine.

"God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends that plague thee thus—" "Why look'st thou so?—with my cross bow I shot the Albatross."

II:

The Sun now rose upon the right, Out of the Sea came he; Still hid in mist; and on the left Went down into the Sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet Bird did follow Nor any day for food or play Came to the Mariner's hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing And it would work e'm woe: For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird That made the Breeze to blow.

Nor dim nor red, like an Angel's head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird That brought the fog and mist.

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay That bring the fog and mist.

The breezes blew, the white foam flew, The furrow follow'd free: We were the first that ever burst Into that silent Sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be And we did speak only to break The silence of the Sea.

All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted Ship Upon a painted Ocean.

Water, water, every where And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

The very deeps did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy Sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The Death-fires danc'd at night; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green and blue and white.

And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us From the Land of Mist and Snow.

And every tongue thro' utter drouth Was wither'd at the root; We could not speak no more than if We had been choked with soot.

Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young; Instead of the Cross the Albatross About my neck was hung.

III.

So past a weary time; each throat Was parch'd, and glaz'd each eye, When, looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

At first it seem'd a little speck And then it seem'd a mist: It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it near'd and near'd; And, as if it dodg'd a water-sprite, It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.

With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd We could nor laugh nor wail; Thro' utter drouth all dumb we stood Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood, And cry'd, A sail! a sail!

With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin And all at once their breath drew in As they were drinking all.

See! See! (I cry'd) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal Without a breeze, without a tide She steddies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a flame, The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.

And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars (Heaven's mother send us grace) As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her Sails that glance in the Sun Like restless gossameres?

Are those her Ribs, thro' which the Sun Did peer, as thro' a grate? And are those two all, all her crew. That Woman, and her Mate?

His bones were black with many a crack, All black and bare, I ween; Jet-black and bare, save where with rust Of mouldy damps and charnel crust They were patch'd with purple and green.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, And she was far liker Death than he; Her flesh made the still air cold.

The naked Hulk alongside came And the Twain were playing dice; "The Game is done! I've won, I've won!" Quoth she, and whistled thrice.

A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled thro' his bones; Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth Half-whistles and half-groans.

With never a whisper in the Sea Off darts the Spectre-ship; While clombe above the Eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright Star Almost between the tips.

One after one by the horned Moon (Listen, O Stranger! to me) Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang And curs'd me with his ee.

Four times fifty living men, With never a sigh or groan, With heavy thump, a lifeless lump They dropp'd down one by one.

Their souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe; And every soul it pass'd me by, Like, the whiz of my Cross-bow.

IV.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand; And thou art long and lank and brown As is the ribb'd Sea-sand."

"I fear thee and thy glittering eye And thy skinny hand so brown—" "Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest! This body dropt not down."

Alone, alone, all all alone Alone on the wide wide Sea; And Christ would take no pity on My soul in agony.

The many men so beautiful, And they all dead did lie! And a million million slimy things Liv'd on—and so did I.

I look'd upon the rotting Sea, And drew my eyes away; I look'd upon the ghastly deck, And there the dead men lay.

I look'd to Heaven, and try'd to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came and made My heart as dry as dust.

I clos'd my lids and kept them close, Till the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot, nor reek did they; The look with which they look'd on me, Had never pass'd away.

An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high: But O! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky And no where did abide: Softly she was going up And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship I watch'd the water-snakes: They mov'd in tracks of shining white; And when they rear'd, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watch'd their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black They coil'd and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gusht from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I bless'd them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

V.

O sleep, it is a gentle thing Belov'd from pole to pole! To Mary-queen the praise be given She sent the gentle sleep from heaven That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck That had so long remain'd, I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew And when I awoke it rain'd.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams And still my body drank.

I mov'd and could not feel my limbs, I was so light, almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed Ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind, It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life And a hundred fire-flags sheen To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out The wan stars danc'd between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud; And the sails did sigh like sedge: And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud The moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell, with never a jag A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reach'd the Ship, Yet now the Ship mov'd on! Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd; they stirr'd, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor mov'd their eyes: It had been strange, even in a dream To have seen those dead men rise,

The helmsman steerd, the ship mov'd on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The Mariners all gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do: They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me knee to knee: The body and I pull'd at one rope, But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" "Be calm, thou wedding guest! 'Twas not those souls, that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of Spirits blest:"

"For when it dawn'd—they dropp'd their arms, And cluster'd round the mast: Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths And from their bodies pass'd."

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun: Slowly the sounds came back again Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes a dropping from the sky I heard the Sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning.

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceas'd: yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night, Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we silently sail'd on Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the Ship Mov'd onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep From the land of mist and snow The spirit slid: and it was He That made the Ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune And the Ship stood still also.

The sun right up above the mast Had fix'd her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.

Then, like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell into a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life return'd, I heard and in my soul discern'd Two voices in the air.

"Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he lay'd full low The harmless Albatross."

"The spirit who 'bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he the man hath penance done, And penance more will do.

VI.

FIRST VOICE.

"But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing?"

SECOND VOICE.

"Still as a Slave before his Lord, The Ocean hath no blast: His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast—"

"If he may know which way to go, For she guides him smooth or grim, See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him."

FIRST VOICE.

"But why drives on that ship so fast Without or wave or wind?"

SECOND VOICE.

"The air is cut away before, And closes from behind."

"Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high, Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated."

I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fix'd on me their stony eyes That in the moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never pass'd away; I could not draw my eyes from theirs Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more I view'd the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on And turns no more his head: Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breath'd a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea In ripple or in shade.

It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek, Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship Yet she sail'd softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.

O dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk? Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— "O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway!"

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less: That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep'd in silentness The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turn'd my eyes upon the deck— O Christ! what saw I there?

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; And by the Holy rood A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand: It was a heavenly sight: They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light:

This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but O! the silence sank, Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the pilot's cheer: My head was turn'd perforce away And I saw a boat appear.

The pilot, and the pilot's boy I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy, The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

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 Mariners That come from a far countree.

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 ner'd: 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 nor spake nor 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 Countree 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 mind 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, That agency returns; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns.

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 Mariner, 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,



LINES Written a few miles above TINTERN ABBEY, an 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. [6]—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.

[Footnote 6: The river is not affacted by the tides a few miles above Tintern.]

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 wariness, 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, Nor 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, [7] 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.

[Footnote 7: This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.]

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.



NOTES

NOTE to THE THORN—This Poem ought to have been preceded by an introductory Poem, which I have been prevented from writing by never having felt myself in a mood when it was probable that I should write it well.—The character which I have here introduced speaking is sufficiently common. The Reader will perhaps have a general notion of it, if he has ever known a man, a Captain of a small trading vessel for example, who being past the middle age of life, had retired upon an annuity or small independent income to some village or country town of which he was not a native, or in which he had not been accustomed to live. Such men having little to do become credulous and talkative from indolence; and from the same cause, and other predisposing causes by which it is probable that such men may have been affected, they are prone to superstition. On which account it appeared to me proper to select a character like this to exhibit some of the general laws by which superstition acts upon the mind. Superstitious men are almost always men of slow faculties and deep feelings; their minds are not loose but adhesive; they have a reasonable share of imagination, by which word I mean the faculty which produces impressive effects out of simple elements; but they are utterly destitute of fancy, the power by which pleasure and surprize are excited by sudden varieties of situation and by accumulated imagery.

It was my wish in this poem to shew the manner in which such men cleave to the same ideas; and to follow the turns of passion, always different, yet not palpably different, by which their conversation is swayed. I had two objects to attain; first, to represent a picture which should not be unimpressive yet consistent with the character that should describe it, secondly, while I adhered to the style in which such persons describe, to take care that words, which in their minds are impregnated with passion, should likewise convey passion to Readers who are not accustomed to sympathize with men feeling in that manner or using such language. It seemed to me that this might be done by calling in the assistance of Lyrical and rapid Metre. It was necessary that the Poem, to be natural, should in reality move slowly; yet I hoped, that, by the aid of the metre, to those who should at all enter into the spirit of the Poem, it would appear to move quickly. The Reader will have the kindness to excuse this note as I am sensible that an introductory Poem is necessary to give this Poem its full effect.

Upon this occasion I will request permission to add a few words closely connected with THE THORN and many other Poems in these Volumes. There is a numerous class of readers who imagine that the same words cannot be repeated without tautology: this is a great error: virtual tautology is much oftener produced by using different words when the meaning is exactly the same. Words, a Poet's words more particularly, ought to be weighed in the balance of feeling and not measured by the space which they occupy upon paper. For the Reader cannot be too often reminded that Poetry is passion: it is the history or science of feelings: now every man must know that an attempt is rarely made to communicate impassioned feelings without something of an accompanying consciousness of the inadequateness of our own powers, or the deficiencies of language. During such efforts there will be a craving in the mind, and as long as it is unsatisfied the Speaker will cling to the same words, or words of the same character. There are also various other reasons why repetition and apparent tautology are frequently beauties of the highest kind. Among the chief of these reasons is the interest which the mind attaches to words, not only as symbols of the passion, but as things, active and efficient, which are of themselves part of the passion. And further, from a spirit of fondness, exultation, and gratitude, the mind luxuriates in the repetition of words which appear successfully to communicate its feelings. The truth of these remarks might be shewn by innumerable passages from the Bible and from the impassioned poetry of every nation.

"Awake, awake Deborah: awake, awake, utter a song:"

"Arise Barak, and lead thy captivity captive, thou Son of Abinoam."

"At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet be bowed, he fell; where he bowed there he fell down dead."

"Why is his Chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the Wheels of his Chariot?"—Judges, Chap. 5th. Verses 12th, 27th, and part of 28th. —See also the whole of that tumultuous and wonderful Poem.

NOTE to the ANCIENT MARINER, p. 155.—I cannot refuse myself the gratification of informing such Readers as may have been pleased with this Poem, or with any part of it, that they owe their pleasure in some sort to me; as the Author was himself very desirous that it should be suppressed. This wish had arisen from a consciousness of the defects of the Poem, and from a knowledge that many persons had been much displeased with it. The Poem of my Friend has indeed great defects; first, that the principal person has no distinct character, either in his profession of Mariner, or as a human being who having been long under the controul of supernatural impressions might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatural: secondly, that he does not act, but is continually acted upon: thirdly, that the events having no necessary connection do not produce each other; and lastly, that the imagery is somewhat too laboriously accumulated. Yet the Poem contains many delicate touches of passion, and indeed the passion is every where true to nature; a great number of the stanzas present beautiful images, and are expressed with unusual felicity of language; and the versification, though the metre is itself unfit for long poems, is harmonious and artfully varied, exhibiting the utmost powers of that metre, and every variety of which it is capable. It therefore appeared to me that these several merits (the first of which, namely that of the passion, is of the highest kind,) gave to the Poem a value which is not often possessed by better Poems. On this account I requested of my Friend to permit me to republish it.

NOTE to the Poem ON REVISITING THE WYE, p. 201.—I have not ventured to call this Poem an Ode; but it was written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versification would be found the principal requisites of that species of composition.

END OF VOL. I.