Willaim the Poet

I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk;And he was seated, by the highway side,On a low structure of rude masonryBuilt at the foot of a huge hill, that theyWho lead their horses down the steep rough roadMay thence remount at ease. The aged ManHad placed his staff across the broad smooth stoneThat overlays the pile; and, from a bagAll white with flour, the dole of village dames,He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;And scanned them with a fixed and serious lookOf idle computation. In the sun,Upon the second step of that small pile,Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,He sat, and ate his food in solitude:And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,That, still attempting to prevent the waste,Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showersFell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,Approached within the length of half his staff.Him from my childhood have I known; and thenHe was so old, he seems not older now;He travels on, a solitary Man,So helpless in appearance, that for himThe sauntering Horseman throws not with a slackAnd careless hand his alms upon the ground,But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coinWithin the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,But still, when he has given his horse the rein,Watches the aged Beggar with a lookSidelong, and half-reverted. She who tendsThe toll-gate, when in summer at her doorShe turns her wheel, if on the road she seesThe aged beggar coming, quits her work,And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertakeThe aged Beggar in the woody lane,Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,The old man does not change his course, the boyTurns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,And passes gently by, without a curseUpon his lips, or anger at his heart.He travels on, a solitary Man;His age has no companion. On the groundHis eyes are turned, and, as he moves along'They' move along the ground; and, evermore,Instead of common and habitual sightOf fields with rural works, of hill and dale,And the blue sky, one little span of earthIs all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground,He plies his weary journey; seeing still,And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have leftImpressed on the white road,--in the same line,At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feetDisturb the summer dust; he is so stillIn look and motion, that the cottage curs,Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by:Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! yeWho are so restless in your wisdom, yeWho have a broom still ready in your handsTo rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplateYour talents, power, or wisdom, deem him notA burthen of the earth! 'Tis Nature's lawThat none, the meanest of created things,Or forms created the most vile and brute,The dullest or most noxious, should existDivorced from good--a spirit and pulse of good,A life and soul, to every mode of beingInseparably linked. Then be assuredThat least of all can aught--that ever ownedThe heaven-regarding eye and front sublimeWhich man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,So low as to be scorned without a sin;Without offence to God cast out of view;Like the dry remnant of a garden-flowerWhose seeds are shed, or as an implementWorn out and worthless. While from door to door,This old Man creeps, the villagers in himBehold a record which together bindsPast deeds and offices of charity,Else unremembered, and so keeps aliveThe kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resignTo selfishness and cold oblivious cares.Among the farms and solitary huts,Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,The mild necessity of use compelsTo acts of love; and habit does the work 0Of reason; yet prepares that after-joyWhich reason cherishes. And thus the soul,By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,Doth find herself insensibly disposedTo virtue and true goodness.Some there are,By their good works exalted, lofty mindsAnd meditative, authors of delightAnd happiness, which to the end of timeWill live, and spread, and kindle: even such mindsIn childhood, from this solitary Being,Or from like wanderer, haply have received(A thing more precious far than all that booksOr the solicitudes of love can do!)That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,In which they found their kindred with a worldWhere want and sorrow were. The easy manWho sits at his own door,--and, like the pearThat overhangs his head from the green wall,Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,The prosperous and unthinking, they who liveSheltered, and flourish in a little groveOf their own kindred;--all behold in himA silent monitor, which on their mindsMust needs impress a transitory thoughtOf self-congratulation, to the heartOf each recalling his peculiar boons,His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,Though he to no one give the fortitudeAnd circumspection needful to preserveHis present blessings, and to husband upThe respite of the season, he, at least,And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.Yet further.----Many, I believe, there areWho live a life of virtuous decency,Men who can hear the Decalogue and feelNo self-reproach; who of the moral lawEstablished in the land where they abideAre strict observers; and not negligentIn acts of love to those with whom they dwell,Their kindred, and the children of their blood.Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!--But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;Go, and demand of him, if there be hereIn this cold abstinence from evil deeds,And these inevitable charities,Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?No--man is dear to man; the poorest poorLong for some moments in a weary lifeWhen they can know and feel that they have been,Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-outOf some small blessings; have been kind to suchAs needed kindness, for this single cause,That we have all of us one human heart.--Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,My neighbour, when with punctual care, each weekDuly as Friday comes, though pressed herselfBy her own wants, she from her store of mealTakes one unsparing handful for the scripOf this old Mendicant, and, from her doorReturning with exhilarated heart,Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!And while in that vast solitude to whichThe tide of things has borne him, he appearsTo breathe and live but for himself alone,Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear aboutThe good which the benignant law of HeavenHas hung around him: and, while life is his,Still let him prompt the unlettered villagersTo tender offices and pensive thoughts.--Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!And, long as he can wander, let him breatheThe freshness of the valleys; let his bloodStruggle with frosty air and winter snows;And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heathBeat his grey locks against his withered face.Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousnessGives the last human interest to his heart.May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din,Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,Be his the natural silence of old age!Let him be free of mountain solitudes;And have around him, whether heard or not,The pleasant melody of woodland birds.Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have nowBeen doomed so long to settle upon earthThat not without some effort they beholdThe countenance of the horizontal sun,Rising or setting, let the light at leastFind a free entrance to their languid orbs.And let him, 'where' and 'when' he will, sit downBeneath the trees, or on a grassy bankOf highway side, and with the little birdsShare his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,As in the eye of Nature he has lived,So in the eye of Nature let him die! 1798.
THE LAST OF THE FLOCKProduced at the same time and for the same purpose. The incident occurred in the village of Holford, close by Alfoxden.IIN distant countries have I been,And yet I have not often seenA healthy man, a man full grown,Weep in the public roads, alone.But such a one, on English ground,And in the broad highway, I met;Along the broad highway he came,His cheeks with tears were wet:Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;And in his arms a Lamb he had.IIHe saw me, and he turned aside,As if he wished himself to hide:And with his coat did then essayTo wipe those briny tears away.I followed him, and said, "My friend,What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"--"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,He makes my tears to flow.To-day I fetched him from the rock;He is the last of all my flock,III"When I was young, a single man,And after youthful follies ran,Though little given to care and thought,Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;And other sheep from her I raised,As healthy sheep as you might see;And then I married, and was richAs I could wish to be;Of sheep I numbered a full score,And every year increased my store.IV"Year after year my stock it grew;And from this one, this single ewe,Full fifty comely sheep I raised,As fine a flock as ever grazed!Upon the Quantock hills they fed;They throve, and we at home did thrive:--This lusty Lamb of all my storeIs all that is alive;And now I care not if we die,And perish all of poverty.V"Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;Hard labour in a time of need!My pride was tamed, and in our griefI of the Parish asked relief.They said, I was a wealthy man;My sheep upon the uplands fed,And it was fit that thence I tookWhereof to buy us bread.'Do this: how can we give to you,'They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'VI"I sold a sheep, as they had said,And bought my little children bread,And they were healthy with their foodFor me--it never did me good.A woeful time it was for me,To see the end of all my gains,The pretty flock which I had rearedWith all my care and pains,To see it melt like snow away--For me it was a woeful day.VII"Another still! and still another!A little lamb, and then its mother!It was a vein that never stopped--Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.'Till thirty were not left aliveThey dwindled, dwindled, one by oneAnd I may say, that many a timeI wished they all were gone--Reckless of what might come at lastWere but the bitter struggle past.VIII"To wicked deeds I was inclined,And wicked fancies crossed my mind;And every man I chanced to see,I thought he knew some ill of me:No peace, no comfort could I find,No ease, within doors or without;And, crazily and wearilyI went my work about;And oft was moved to flee from home,And hide my head where wild beasts roam.IX"Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,As dear as my own children be;For daily with my growing storeI loved my children more and more.Alas! it was an evil time;God cursed me in my sore distress;I prayed, yet every day I thoughtI loved my children less;And every week, and every day,My flock it seemed to melt away.X"They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!From ten to five, from five to three,A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;--And then at last from three to two;And, of my fifty, yesterdayI had but only one:And here it lies upon my arm,Alas! and I have none;--To-day I fetched it from the rock;It is the last of all my flock." 1798.
THE TWO APRIL MORNINGSWE walked along, while bright and redUprose the morning sun;And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,"The will of God be done!"A village schoolmaster was he,With hair of glittering grey;As blithe a man as yon could seeOn a spring holiday.And on that morning, through the grass,And by the steaming rills,We travelled merrily, to passA day among the hills."Our work," said I, "was well begun,Then, from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?"A second time did Matthew stop;And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-top,To me he made reply:"Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this which I have leftFull thirty years behind."And just above yon slope of cornSuch colours, and no other,Were in the sky, that April morn,Of this the very brother."With rod and line I sued the sportWhich that sweet season gave,And, to the church-yard come, stopped shortBeside my daughter's grave."Nine summers had she scarcely seen,The pride of all the vale;And then she sang;--she would have beenA very nightingale."Six feet in earth my Emma lay;And yet I loved her more,For so it seemed, than till that dayI e'er had loved before."And, turning from her grave, I met,Beside the church-yard yew,A blooming Girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew."A basket on her head she bare;Her brow was smooth and white:To see a child so very fair,It was a pure delight!"No fountain from its rocky caveE'er tripped with foot so free;She seemed as happy as a waveThat dances on the sea."There came from me a sigh of painWhich I could ill confine;I looked at her, and looked again:And did not wish her mine!"Matthew is in his grave, yet now,Methinks, I see him stand,As at that moment, with a boughOf wilding in his hand. 1799.
A POET'S EPITAPHART thou a Statist in the vanOf public conflicts trained and bred?--First learn to love one living man;'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead.A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh!Go, carry to some fitter placeThe keenness of that practised eye,The hardness of that sallow face.Art thou a Man of purple cheer?A rosy Man, right plump to see?Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,This grave no cushion is for thee.Or art thou one of gallant pride,A Soldier and no man of chaff?Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside,And lean upon a peasant's staff.Physician art thou? one, all eyes,Philosopher! a fingering slave,One that would peep and botaniseUpon his mother's grave?Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,O turn aside,--and take, I pray,That he below may rest in peace,Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!A Moralist perchance appears;Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:And he has neither eyes nor ears;Himself his world, and his own God;One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can clingNor form, nor feeling, great or small;A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,An intellectual All-in-all!Shut close the door; press down the latch;Sleep in thy intellectual crust;Nor lose ten tickings of thy watchNear this unprofitable dust.But who is He, with modest looks,And clad in homely russet brown?He murmurs near the running brooksA music sweeter than their own.He is retired as noontide dew,Or fountain in a noon-day grove;And you must love him, ere to youHe will seem worthy of your love.The outward shows of sky and earth,Of hill and valley, he has viewed;And impulses of deeper birthHave come to him in solitude.In common things that round us lieSome random truths he can impart,--The harvest of a quiet eyeThat broods and sleeps on his own heart.But he is weak; both Man and Boy,Hath been an idler in the land;Contented if he might enjoyThe things which others understand.--Come hither in thy hour of strength;Come, weak as is a breaking wave!Here stretch thy body at full length;Or build thy house upon this grave. 1799.
THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER"Composed in the Hartz Forest.THREE years she grew in sun and shower,Then Nature said, "A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This Child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA Lady of my own."Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe Girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain."She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawn,Or up the mountain springs;And her's shall be the breathing balm,And her's the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things."The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeEven in the motions of the StormGrace that shall mould the Maiden's formBy silent sympathy."The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face."And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell."Thus Nature spake--The work was done--How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm, and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be. 1799. THE FOUNTAINA CONVERSATIONWE talked with open heart, and tongueAffectionate and true,A pair of friends, though I was young,And Matthew seventy-two.We lay beneath a spreading oak,Beside a mossy seat;And from the turf a fountain broke,And gurgled at our feet."Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon;"Or of the church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shade,That half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!"In silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe spring beneath the tree;And thus the dear old Man replied,The grey-haired man of glee:"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears;How merrily it goes!'Twill murmur on a thousand years,And flow as now it flows."And here, on this delightful day,I cannot choose but thinkHow oft, a vigorous man, I layBeside this fountain's brink."My eyes are dim with childish tears,My heart is idly stirred,For the same sound is in my earsWhich in those days I heard."Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns less for what age takes awayThan what it leaves behind."The blackbird amid leafy trees,The lark above the hill,Let loose their carols when they pleaseAre quiet when they will."With Nature never do 'they' wageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:"But we are pressed by heavy laws;And often, glad no more,We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore."If there be one who need bemoanHis kindred laid in earth,The household hearts that were his own;It is the man of mirth."My days, my Friend, are almost gone,My life has been approved,And many love me; but by noneAm I enough beloved.""Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains;I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains;"And, Matthew, for thy children deadI'll be a son to thee!"At this he grasped my hand, and said,"Alas! that cannot be."We rose up from the fountain-side;And down the smooth descentOf the green sheep-track did we glide;And through the wood we went;And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,He sang those witty rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clock,And the bewildered chimes,the crimeajewel. 1799.
MATTHEWIn the School of ---- is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the Names of the several persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite to one of those names the Author wrote the following lines. Such a Tablet as is here spoken of continued to be preserved in Hawkshead School, though the inscriptions were not brought down to our time. This and other poems connected with Matthew would not gain by a literal detail of facts. Like the Wanderer in "The Excursion," this Schoolmaster was made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations. I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough if, being true and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not unworthy of a Poet's calling.IF Nature, for a favourite child,In thee hath tempered so her clay,That every hour thy heart runs wild,Yet never once doth go astray,Read o'er these lines; and then reviewThis tablet, that thus humbly rearsIn such diversity of hueIts history of two hundred years.--When through this little wreck of fame,Cipher and syllable! thine eyeHas travelled down to Matthew's name,Pause with no common sympathy.And, if a sleeping tear should wake,Then be it neither checked nor stayed:For Matthew a request I makeWhich for himself he had not made.Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,Is silent as a standing pool;Far from the chimney's merry roar,And murmur of the village school.The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighsOf one tired out with fun and madness;The tears which came to Matthew's eyesWere tears of light, the dew of gladness.Yet, sometimes, when the secret cupOf still and serious thought went round,It seemed as if he drank it up--He felt with spirit so profound.--Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!Thou happy Soul! and can it beThat these two words of glittering goldAre all that must remain of thee? 1799.
THE BROTHERSThis poem was composed in a grove at the north-eastern end of Grasmere lake, which grove was in a great measure destroyed by turning the high-road along the side of the water. The few trees that are left were spared at my intercession. The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called The Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left midway on the rock."THESE Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must liveA profitable life: some glance along,Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,And they were butterflies to wheel aboutLong as the summer lasted: some, as wise,Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.But, for that moping Son of Idleness,Why can he tarry 'yonder'?--In our churchyardIs neither epitaph nor monument,Tombstone nor name--only the turf we treadAnd a few natural graves."To Jane, his wife,Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.It was a July evening; and he sateUpon the long stone-seat beneath the eavesOf his old cottage,--as it chanced, that day,Employed in winter's work. Upon the stoneHis wife sate near him, teasing matted wool,While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire,He fed the spindle of his youngest child,Who, in the open air, with due accordOf busy hands and back-and-forward steps,Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the fieldIn which the Parish Chapel stood alone,Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall,While half an hour went by, the Priest had sentMany a long look of wonder: and at last,Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridgeOf carded wool which the old man had piledHe laid his implements with gentle care,Each in the other locked; and, down the pathThat from his cottage to the church-yard led,He took his way, impatient to accostThe Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.'Twas one well known to him in former days,A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth yearHad left that calling, tempted to entrustHis expectations to the fickle windsAnd perilous waters; with the marinersA fellow-mariner;--and so had faredThrough twenty seasons; but he had been rearedAmong the mountains, and he in his heartWas half a shepherd on the stormy seas.Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heardThe tones of waterfalls, and inland soundsOf caves and trees:--and, when the regular windBetween the tropics filled the steady sail,And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,Lengthening invisibly its weary lineAlong the cloudless Main, he, in those hoursOf tiresome indolence, would often hangOver the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foamFlashed round him images and hues that wroughtIn union with the employment of his heart,He, thus by feverish passion overcome,Even with the organs of his bodily eye,Below him, in the bosom of the deep,Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazedOn verdant hills--with dwellings among trees,And shepherds clad in the same country greyWhich he himself had worn.And now, at last,From perils manifold, with some small wealthAcquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles,To his paternal home he is returned,With a determined purpose to resumeThe life he had lived there; both for the sakeOf many darling pleasures, and the loveWhich to an only brother he has borneIn all his hardships, since that happy timeWhen, whether it blew foul or fair, they twoWere brother-shepherds on their native hills.--They were the last of all their race: and now,When Leonard had approached his home, his heartFailed in him; and, not venturing to enquireTidings of one so long and dearly loved,He to the solitary churchyard turned;That, as he knew in what particular spotHis family were laid, he thence might learnIf still his Brother lived, or to the fileAnother grave was added.--He had foundAnother grave,--near which a full half-hourHe had remained; but, as he gazed, there grewSuch a confusion in his memory,That he began to doubt; and even to hopeThat he had seen this heap of turf before,--That it was not another grave; but oneHe had forgotten. He had lost his path,As up the vale, that afternoon, he walkedThrough fields which once had been well known to him:And oh what joy this recollection nowSent to his heart! he lifted up his eyes,And, looking round, imagined that he sawStrange alteration wrought on every sideAmong the woods and fields, and that the rocks,And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 0By this the Priest, who down the field had come,Unseen by Leonard, at the churchyard gateStopped short,--and thence, at leisure, limb by limbPerused him with a gay complacency.Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself,'Tis one of those who needs must leave the pathOf the world's business to go wild alone:His arms have a perpetual holiday;The happy man will creep about the fields,Following his fancies by the hour, to bringTears down his cheek, or solitary smilesInto his face, until the setting sunWrite fool upon his forehead.--Planted thusBeneath a shed that over-arched the gateOf this rude churchyard, till the stars appearedThe good Man might have communed with himself,But that the Stranger, who had left the grave,Approached; he recognised the Priest at once,And, after greetings interchanged, and givenBy Leonard to the Vicar as to oneUnknown to him, this dialogue ensued.LEONARD. You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life:Your years make up one peaceful family;And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome comeAnd welcome gone, they are so like each other,They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeralComes to this churchyard once in eighteen months;And yet, some changes must take place among you:And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks,Can trace the finger of mortality,And see, that with our threescore years and tenWe are not all that perish.----I remember,(For many years ago I passed this road)There was a foot-way all along the fieldsBy the brook-side--'tis gone--and that dark cleft!To me it does not seem to wear the faceWhich then it had!PRIEST. Nay, Sir, for aught I know,That chasm is much the same--LEONARD. But, surely, yonder--PRIEST. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friendThat does not play you false.--On that tall pike(It is the loneliest place of all these hills)There were two springs which bubbled side by side,As if they had been made that they might beCompanions for each other: the huge cragWas rent with lightning--one hath disappeared;The other, left behind, is flowing still.For accidents and changes such as these,We want not store of them;--a waterspoutWill bring down half a mountain; what a feastFor folks that wander up and down like you,To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliffOne roaring cataract! a sharp May-stormWill come with loads of January snow,And in one night send twenty score of sheepTo feed the ravens; or a shepherd diesBy some untoward death among the rocks:The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge;A wood is felled:--and then for our own homes!A child is born or christened, a field ploughed,A daughter sent to service, a web spun,The old house-clock is decked with a new face;And hence, so far from wanting facts or datesTo chronicle the time, we all have hereA pair of diaries,--one serving, Sir,For the whole dale, and one for each fireside--Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians,Commend me to these valleys!LEONARD. Yet your ChurchyardSeems, if such freedom may be used with you,To say that you are heedless of the past:An orphan could not find his mother's grave:Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass,Cross-bones nor skull,--type of our earthly stateNor emblem of our hopes: the dead man's homeIs but a fellow to that pasture-field.PRIEST. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me!The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their breadIf every English churchyard were like ours;Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth:We have no need of names and epitaphs;We talk about the dead by our firesides.And then, for our immortal part! 'we' wantNo symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale:The thought of death sits easy on the manWho has been born and dies among the mountains.LEONARD. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughtsPossess a kind of second life: no doubtYou, Sir, could help me to the historyOf half these graves?PRIEST. For eight-score winters past,With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard,Perhaps I might; and, on a winter-evening,If you were seated at my chimney's nook,By turning o'er these hillocks one by one,We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round;Yet all in the broad highway of the world.Now there's a grave--your foot is half upon it,--It looks just like the rest; and yet that man 0Died broken-hearted.LEONARD. 'Tis a common case.We'll take another: who is he that liesBeneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves?It touches on that piece of native rockLeft in the church-yard wall.PRIEST. That's Walter Ewbank.He had as white a head and fresh a cheekAs ever were produced by youth and ageEngendering in the blood of hale fourscore.Through five long generations had the heartOf Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the boundsOf their inheritance, that single cottage--You see it yonder! and those few green fields.They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son,Each struggled, and each yielded as beforeA little--yet a little,--and old Walter,They left to him the family heart, and landWith other burthens than the crop it bore.Year after year the old man still kept upA cheerful mind,--and buffeted with bond,Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank,And went into his grave before his time.Poor Walter! whether it was care that spurred himGod only knows, but to the very lastHe had the lightest foot in Ennerdale:His pace was never that of an old man:I almost see him tripping down the pathWith his two grandsons after him:--but you,Unless our Landlord be your host tonight,Have far to travel,--and on these rough pathsEven in the longest day of midsummer--LEONARD. But those two Orphans!PRIEST. Orphans!--Such they were--Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parentsLay buried side by side as now they lie,The old man was a father to the boys,Two fathers in one father: and if tears,Shed when he talked of them where they were not,And hauntings from the infirmity of love,Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart,This old Man, in the day of his old age,Was half a mother to them.--If you weep, Sir,To hear a stranger talking about strangers,Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred!Ay--you may turn that way--it is a graveWhich will bear looking at.LEONARD. These boys--I hopeThey loved this good old Man?--PRIEST. They did--and truly:But that was what we almost overlooked,They were such darlings of each other. Yes,Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter,The only kinsman near them, and though heInclined to both by reason of his age,With a more fond, familiar, tenderness;They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare,And it all went into each other's hearts.Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months,Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see,To hear, to meet them!--From their house the schoolIs distant three short miles, and in the timeOf storm and thaw, when every watercourseAnd unbridged stream, such as you may have noticedCrossing our roads at every hundred steps,Was swoln into a noisy rivulet,Would Leonard then, when eider boys remainedAt home, go staggering through the slippery fords,Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him,On windy days, in one of those stray brooks,Ay, more than once I have seen him, midleg deep,Their two books lying both on a dry stone,Upon the hither side: and once I said,As I remember, looking round these rocksAnd hills on which we all of us were born,That God who made the great book of the worldWould bless such piety--LEONARD. It may be then--PRIEST. Never did worthier lads break English bread:The very brightest Sunday Autumn sawWith all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts,Could never keep those boys away from church,Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach.Leonard and James! I warrant, every cornerAmong these rocks, and every hollow placeThat venturous foot could reach, to one or bothWas known as well as to the flowers that grow there.Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills;They played like two young ravens on the crags:Then they could write, ay and speak too, as wellAs many of their betters--and for Leonard!The very night before he went away,In my own house I put into his handA Bible, and I'd wager house and fieldThat, if he be alive, he has it yet.LEONARD. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to beA comfort to each other--PRIEST. That they mightLive to such end is what both old and youngIn this our valley all of us have wished, 0And what, for my part, I have often prayed:But Leonard--LEONARD. Then James still is left among you!PRIEST. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking:They had an uncle;--he was at that timeA thriving man, and trafficked on the seas:And, but for that same uncle, to this hourLeonard had never handled rope or shroud:For the boy loved the life which we lead here;And though of unripe years, a stripling only,His soul was knit to this his native soil.But, as I said, old Walter was too weakTo strive with such a torrent; when he died,The estate and house were sold; and all their sheep,A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know,Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years:--Well--all was gone, and they were destitute,And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake,Resolved to try his fortune on the seas.Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him.If there were one among us who had heardThat Leonard Ewbank was come home again,From the Great Gavel, down by Leeza's banks,And down the Enna, far as Egremont,The day would be a joyous festival;And those two bells of ours, which there you see--Hanging in the open air--but, O good Sir!This is sad talk--they'll never sound for him--Living or dead.--When last we heard of him,He was in slavery among the MoorsUpon the Barbary coast.--'Twas not a littleThat would bring down his spirit; and no doubt,Before it ended in his death, the YouthWas sadly crossed.--Poor Leonard! when we parted,He took me by the hand, and said to me,If e'er he should grow rich, he would return,To live in peace upon his father's land,And any his bones among us.LEONARD. If that dayShould come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him;He would himself, no doubt, be happy thenAs any that should meet him--PRIEST. Happy! Sir--LEONARD. You said his kindred all were in their graves,And that he had one Brother--PRIEST. That is butA fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youthJames, though not sickly, yet was delicate;And Leonard being always by his sideHad done so many offices about him,That, though he was not of a timid nature,Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boyIn him was somewhat checked; and, when his BrotherWas gone to sea, and he was left alone,The little colour that he had was soonStolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and pined--LEONARD. But these are all the graves of full-grown men!PRIEST. Ay, Sir, that passed away: we took him to us;He was the child of all the dale--he livedThree months with one, and six months with another,And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love:And many, many happy days were his.But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my beliefHis absent Brother still was at his heart.And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found(A practice till this time unknown to him)That often, rising from his bed at night,He in his sleep would walk about, and sleepingHe sought his brother Leonard.--You are moved!Forgive me, Sir: before I spoke to you,I judged you most unkindly.LEONARD. But this Youth,How did he die at last?PRIEST. One sweet May-morning,(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns)He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs,With two or three companions, whom their courseOf occupation led from height to heightUnder a cloudless sun--till he, at length,Through weariness, or, haply, to indulgeThe humour of the moment, lagged behind.You see yon precipice;--it wears the shapeOf a vast building made of many crags;And in the midst is one particular rockThat rises like a column from the vale,Whence by our shepherds it is called, THE PILLAR.Upon its aery summit crowned with heath,The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades,Lay stretched at ease; but, passing by the placeOn their return, they found that he was gone.No ill was feared; till one of them by chanceEntering, when evening was far spent, the houseWhich at that time was James's home, there learnedThat nobody had seen him all that day:The morning came, and still he was unheard of:The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brookSome hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noonThey found him at the foot of that same rockDead, and with mangled limbs. The third day afterI buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies! 0LEONARD. And that then 'is' his grave!--Before his deathYou say that he saw many happy years?PRIEST. Ay, that he did--LEONARD. And all went well with him?--PRIEST. If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes.LEONARD. And you believe, then, that his mind was easy?--PRIEST. Yes, long before he died, he found that timeIs a true friend to sorrow; and unlessHis thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune,He talked about him with a cheerful love.LEONARD. He could not come to an unhallowed end!PRIEST. Nay, God forbid!--You recollect I mentionedA habit which disquietude and griefHad brought upon him; and we all conjecturedThat, as the day was warm, he had lain downOn the soft heath,--and, waiting for his comrades,He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleepHe to the margin of the precipiceHad walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong:And so no doubt he perished. When the YouthFell, in his hand he must have grasped, we think,His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rockIt had been caught mid-way; and there for yearsIt hung;--and mouldered there.The Priest here ended--The Stranger would have thanked him, but he feltA gushing from his heart, that took awayThe power of speech. Both left the spot in silence;And Leonard, when they reached the churchyard gate,As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round,--And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother!"The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreatingThat Leonard would partake his homely fare:The other thanked him with an earnest voice;But added, that, the evening being calm,He would pursue his journey. So they parted.It was not long ere Leonard reached a groveThat overhung the road: he there stopped short,And, sitting down beneath the crimeajewel trees, reviewedAll that the Priest had said: his early yearsWere with him:--his long absence, cherished hopes,And thoughts which had been his an hour before,All pressed on him with such a weight, that now,This vale, where he had been so happy, seemedA place in which he could not bear to live:So he relinquished all his purposes.He travelled back to Egremont: and thence,That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest,Reminding him of what had passed between them;And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,That it was from the weakness of his heartHe had not dared to tell him who he was.This done, he went on shipboard, and is nowA Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner.I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"I TRAVELLED among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherished turned her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealedThe bowers where Lucy played;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes surveyed. 1799. THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINESuggested nearer to Grasmere, on the same mountain track as that referred to in the following Note. The Eglantine remained many years afterwards, but is now gone.I"BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"Exclaimed an angry Voice,"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish selfBetween me and my choice!"A small Cascade fresh swoln with snowsThus threatened a poor Briar-rose,That, all bespattered with his foam,And dancing high and dancing low,Was living, as a child might know,In an unhappy home.II"Dost thou presume my course to block?Off, off! or, puny Thing!I'll hurl thee headlong with the rockTo which thy fibres cling."The Flood was tyrannous and strong;The patient Briar suffered long,Nor did he utter groan or sigh,Hoping the danger would be past;But, seeing no relief, at last,He ventured to reply.III"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not;Why should we dwell in strife?We who in this sequestered spotOnce lived a happy life!You stirred me on my rocky bed--What pleasure through my veins you spreadThe summer long, from day to day,My leaves you freshened and bedewed;Nor was it common gratitudeThat did your cares repay.IV"When spring came on with bud and bell,Among these rocks did IBefore you hang my wreaths to tellThat gentle days were nigh!And in the sultry summer hours,I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;And in my leaves--now shed and gone,The linnet lodged, and for us twoChanted his pretty songs, when youHad little voice or none.V"But now proud thoughts are in your breast--What grief is mine you see,Ah! would you think, even yet how blestTogether we might be!Though of both leaf and flower bereft,Some ornaments to me are left--Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,With which I, in my humble way,Would deck you many a winter day,A happy Eglantine!"VIWhat more he said I cannot tell,The Torrent down the rocky dellCame thundering loud and fast;I listened, nor aught else could hear;The Briar quaked--and much I fearThose accents were his last.THE SPARROW'S NESTWritten in the Orchard, Town-end, Grasmere. At the end of the garden of my father's house at Cockermouth was a high terrace that commanded a fine view of the river Derwent and Cockermouth Castle. This was our favourite play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was covered with closely-clipt privet and roses, which gave an almost impervious shelter to birds that built their nests there. The latter of these stanzas alludes to one of those nests.BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,Those bright blue eggs together laid!On me the chance-discovered sightGleamed like a vision of delight.I started--seeming to espyThe home and sheltered bed,The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard byMy Father's house, in wet and dryMy sister Emmeline and ITogether visited.She looked at it and seemed to fear it;Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it:Such heart was in her, being thenA little Prattler among men.The Blessing of my later yearsWas with me when a boy:She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;And humble cares, and delicate fears;A heart, the fountain of sweet tears;And love, and thought, and joy.
I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE"I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vainAnd an unthinking grief! The tenderest moodOf that Man's mind--what can it be? what foodFed his first hopes? what knowledge could 'he' gain?'Tis not in battles that from youth we trainThe Governor who must be wise and good,And temper with the sternness of the brainThoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talkMan holds with week-day man in the hourly walkOf the mind's business: these are the degreesBy which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalkTrue Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.LONDON, 1802MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men;Oh! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.
THE GREEN LINNETBENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow-white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf spring's unclouded weather,In this sequestered nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And birds and flowers once more to greet,My last year's friends together.One have I marked, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,Presiding Spirit here to-day,Dost lead the revels of the May;And this is thy dominion.While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,Art sole in thy employment:A Life, a Presence like the Air,Scattering thy gladness without care,Too blest with any one to pair;Thyself thy own enjoyment.Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,That twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perched in ecstasies,Yet seeming still to hover;There! where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.My dazzled sight he oft deceives,A Brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes;As if by that exulting strainHe mocked and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feign,While fluttering in the bushes.TO THE CUCKOOComposed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere.O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice.O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear,From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off, and near.Though babbling only to the Vale,Of sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery;The same whom in my school-boy daysI listened to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still longed for, never seen.And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.O blessed Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, faery place;That is fit home for Thee!TO A SKY-LARKUP with me! up with me into the clouds!For thy song, Lark, is strong;Up with me, up with me into the clouds!Singing, singing,With clouds and sky about thee ringing,Lift me, guide me till I findThat spot which seems so to thy mind!I have walked through wildernesses drearyAnd to-day my heart is weary;Had I now the wings of a Faery,Up to thee would I fly.There is madness about thee, and joy divineIn that song of thine;Lift me, guide me high and highTo thy banqueting-place in the sky.Joyous as morningThou art laughing and scorning;Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,And, though little troubled with sloth,Drunken Lark! thou would'st be lothTo be such a traveller as I.Happy, happy Liver,With a soul as strong as a mountain riverPouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,Joy and jollity be with us both!Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,As full of gladness and as free of heaven,I, with my fate contented, will plod on,And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

Willaim the Poet

1798.
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGARObserved, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child: written at Racedown and Alfoxden in my twenty-third year. The political economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless process has been carried as far as it can go by the AMENDED poor-law bill, though the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat disguised by the profession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of their neighbours; that is, if rightly interpreted, to force them into a condition between relief in the Union poorhouse, and alms robbed of their Christian grace and spirit, as being "forced" rather from the benevolent than given by them; while the avaricious and selfish, and all in fact but the humane and charitable, are at liberty to keep all they possess from their distressed brethren.The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.

Willaim the Poet

THE IDIOT BOYThe last stanza--"The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the sun did shine so cold"--was the foundation of the whole. The words were reported to me by my dear friend, Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same repeated of other Idiots. Let me add that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted. I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.

'TIS eight o'clock,--a clear March night,The moon is up,--the sky is blue,The owlet, in the moonlight air,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 setHim whom you love, your Idiot Boy?Scarcely a soul is out of bed;Good Betty, put him down again;His lips with joy they burr at you;But, Betty! what has he to doWith stirrup, saddle, or with rein?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 moanAs 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 fetchedHer 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 FoyHas on the well-girt saddle set(The like was never heard of yet)Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.And he must post without delayAcross the bridge and through 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' nowHe shakes the green bough in his hand.And Betty o'er and o'er has toldThe 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 youCome home again, nor stop at all,--Come home again, whate'er befall,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 seeThe green bough motionless and dead:The Moon that shines above his headIs 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 while the Mother, at the door,Stands fixed, her 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, 0And Betty listens, glad to hear it.Away she hies to Susan Gale:Her Messenger's in merry tune;The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,As 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 tellWhat 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 speedy help her Boy will bring,With many a most diverting thing,Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.And Betty, still at Susan's side,By this time is not quite so flurried:Demure with porringer and plateShe sits, as if in Susan's fateHer 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 storeFive years of happiness or moreTo any that might need it.But yet I guess that now and thenWith 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--Both will be here before eleven."Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;The clock gives warning for eleven;'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near,"Quoth Betty, "and 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 sayIf 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 GuideAppears along the moonlight road;There's neither horse nor man abroad,And Betty's still at Susan's side.And Susan now begins to fearOf sad mischances not a few,That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;Or lost, perhaps, and never found;Which they must both for ever rue.She prefaced half a hint of thisWith, "God forbid it should be true!"At the first word that Susan saidCried 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 prayerThat God poor Susan's life would spare, 0Till 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.And while she crossed the bridge, there cameA thought with which her heart is sore--Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,To hunt the moon within the brook,And never will be heard of more.Now is she high upon the down,Alone amid a prospect wide;There's neither Johnny nor his HorseAmong the fern or in the gorse;There's neither Doctor nor his Guide."O 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 gipsy-folk."Or him that wicked Pony's carriedTo the dark cave, the goblin's hall;Or in the castle he's pursuingAmong 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 could hardly spare:Unworthy things she talked, and wild;Even he, of cattle the most mild,The Pony had his share.But now she's fairly in 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 showsHis glimmering eyes that peep and doze!And one hand rubs his old night-cap."O Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?""I'm here, what is't you want with me?""O 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!" saidThe 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 lost one 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 painIf 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 shocked 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:"O cruel! I'm almost threescore;Such night as this was ne'er before,There's not a single soul abroad."She listens, but she cannot hearThe 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 nightAre 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 past,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! 0And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."A thought is 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 beTo drown herself therein.O Reader! now that I might tellWhat Johnny and his Horse are doingWhat 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 roamThe 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 silent as a horseman-ghost,He travels slowly down the vale.And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep,A fierce and dreadful hunter he;Yon valley, now so trim and green,In five months' time, should he be seen,A desert wilderness will be!Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,And like the very soul of evil,He's galloping away, away,And so will gallop on for aye,The bane of all that dread the devil!I to the Muses have been boundThese fourteen years, by strong indentures:O gentle Muses! let me tellBut half of what to him befell;He surely met with strange adventures.O 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 meYe 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--there 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 waterfall 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 seesHim 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 joyI cannot tell; but while he laughs,Betty a drunken pleasure quaffsTo hear again her Idiot Boy.And now she's at the Pony's tail,And now is 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 againHim whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;She's happy here, is happy there,She is uneasy every where;Her limbs are all alive with joy.She pats the Pony, where or whenShe 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 0From the loud waterfall.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, betimes abroad,That hobbles up the steep rough road?Who is it, but old Susan Gale?Long time lay Susan 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 tossed 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 goes 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 meetingAs 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 heardThe owls in tuneful concert strive;No doubt too he the moon had seen;For in the moonlight he had beenFrom eight o'clock till five.And thus, to Betty's question, heMade 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,

Willaim the Poet

William Wordsworth (7 April 1770 – 23 April 1850) was a major English Romantic poet who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped launch the Romantic Age in English literature with their 1798 joint publication,Lyrical Ballads.
Wordsworth's magnum opus is generally considered to be The Prelude, a semi-autobiographical poem of his early years which the poet revised and expanded a number of times. The work was posthumously titled and published, prior to which it was generally known as the poem "to Coleridge". Wordsworth was England's Poet Laureate from 1843 until his death in 1850.
The second of five children born to John Wordsworth and Ann Cookson, William Wordsworth was born on 7 April 1770 in Cockermouth in Cumberland — part of the scenic region in north-west England, the Lake District. His sister, the poet and diarist Dorothy Wordsworth, to whom he was close all his life, was born the following year, and the two were baptised together. They had three other siblings: Richard, the eldest who became a lawyer; John, born after Dorothy, who would become a poet and enjoy nature with William and Dorothy until he died in a 1805 shipwreck; and Christopher, the youngest, who would become a scholar. Their father was a legal representative for James Lowther,1st Earl of Lonsdale and through his connections they were able to live in a large mansion in the small town. Wordsworth, as with his siblings, had little involvement with their father, and they would be distant with him until his death in 1783.
Wordsworth's father, although rarely present, did teach him poetry, including that of Milton, Shakespeare, and Spenser, in addition to allowing his son to rely on his father's library. In addition to spending his time reading in Cockermouth, he would stay at his mother's parents home in Penrith,Cumberland. At Penrith, Wordsworth was exposed to the moors and was influenced by his experience with the landscape and was further turned towards nature by the harsh treatment he received at the hands of his relatives. In particular, Wordsworth could not get along with his grand parents and his uncle, and his hostile interactions with them distressed him to the point of contemplating suicide.
After the death of their mother in 1778, their father sent William to Hawkshead Grammar School and sent Dorothy to live with relatives in Yorkshire. She and William did not meet again for another nine years. Although Hawkshead was Wordsworth's first serious experience with education, he was taught to read by his mother and attended a tiny school in Cockermouth of low quality. After the Cockermouth school, he was sent to a school in Penrith for the children of upper class families and taught by Ann Birkett, a woman who insisted in instilling tradition in her students that included pursuing both scholarly and local activities, especially the festivals around Easter,May Day, or Shrove Tuesday. Wordsworth was taught both the Bible and the Spectator, but little else. It was at the school that Wordsworth was to meet the Hutchinsons, including Mary, who would be his future wife.
Wordsworth made his debut as a writer in 1787 when he published a sonnet in The European Magazine. That same year he began attending St.John's College,Cambridge, and received his B.A degree in 1791. He returned to Hawkshead for his first two summer holidays, and often spent later holidays on walking tours, visiting places famous for the beauty of their landscape. In 1790, he took a walking tour of Europe, during which he toured the Alps extensively, and also visited nearby areas of France, Switzerland, and Italy. His youngest brother,Christopher, rose to be Master of Trinity.
In November 1791, Wordsworth visited Revolutionary France and became enthralled with the Republican movement. He fell in love with a French woman, Annette Vallon, who in 1792 gave birth to their child, Caroline. Because of lack of money and Britain's tensions with France, he returned alone to England the next year. The circumstances of his return and his subsequent behaviour raise doubts as to his declared wish to marry Annette but he supported her and his daughter the best he could in later life. During this period, he wrote his acclaimed "It is a beauteous evening, calm and free," recalling his seaside walk with his wife, whom he had not seen for ten years. At the conception of this poem, he had never seen his daughter before. The occurring lines reveal his deep love for both child and mother. The Reign of Terror estranged him from the Republican movement, and war between France and Britain prevented him from seeing Annette and Caroline again for several years. There are also strong suggestions that Wordsworth may have been depressed and emotionally unsettled in the mid 1790s.
With the Peace of Amiens again allowing travel to France, in 1802 Wordsworth and his sister, Dorothy visited Annette and Caroline in France and arrived at a mutually agreeable settlement regarding Wordsworth's obligations.
In his "Preface to Lyrical Ballads" which is called the 'manifesto' of English Romantic criticism, Wordsworth calls his poems ' experimental'. 1793 saw Wordsworth's first published poetry with the collections An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches. He received a legacy of £900 from Raisley Calvert in 1795 so that he could pursue writing poetry. That year, he also met Samuel Taylor Coleridge in Somerset. The two poets quickly developed a close friendship. In 1797, Wordsworth and his sister,Dorothy, moved to Alfoxton House, Somerset, just a few miles away from Coleridge's home in Nether Stowey. Together, Wordsworth and Coleridge (with insights from Dorothy) produced Lyrical Ballads (1798), an important work in the English Romantic movement. The volume had neither the name of Wordsworth nor Coleridge as the author. One of Wordsworth's most famous poems, "Tintern Abbey", was published in the work, along with Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner". The second edition, published in 1800, had only Wordsworth listed as the author, and included a preface to the poems, which was significantly augmented in the 1802 edition. This Preface to Lyrical Ballads is considered a central work of Romantic literary theory. In it, Wordsworth discusses what he sees as the elements of a new type of poetry, one based on the "real language of men" and which avoids the poetic diction of much eighteenth-century poetry. Here, Wordsworth also gives his famous definition of poetry as the "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings from emotions recollected in tranquility." A fourth and final edition of Lyrical Ballads was published in 1805.
Wordsworth, Dorothy, and Coleridge then travelled to Germany in the autumn of 1798. While Coleridge was intellectually stimulated by the trip, its main effect on Wordsworth was to produce homesickness. During the harsh winter of 1798–1799, Wordsworth lived with Dorothy in Goslar, and despite extreme stress and loneliness, he began work on an autobiographical piece later titled The Prelude. He also wrote a number of famous poems, including "The Lucy poems". He and his sister moved back to England, now to Dove Cottage in Grasmere in the Lake District, and this time with fellow poet Robert Southey nearby. Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey came to be known as the "Lake Poets". Through this period, many of his poems revolve around themes of death, endurance, separation, and grief.
In 1802, after returning from his trip to France with Dorothy to visit Annette and Caroline, Lowther's heir,William Lowther,1st Earl of Lonsdale, repaid the ₤4,000 debt owed to Wordsworth's father incurred through Lowther's failure to pay his aide. Later that year, Wordsworth married a childhood friend, Mary Hutchinson. Dorothy continued to live with the couple and grew close to Mary. The following year, Mary gave birth to the first of five children:
John Wordsworth (June 18 1803 - 1875). Married four times:
1.) Isabella Curwen (d. 1848) had six children: Jane, Henry, William, John, Charles and Edward. 2.) Helen Ross (d. 1854). No issue. 3.) Mary Ann Dolan (d. after 1856) had 1 daughter Dora (b.1858). 4.) Mary Gamble. No issue.
Dora Wordsworth (August 16 1804 - July 9th 1847). Married Edward Quillinan.
Thomas Wordsworth (June 15 1806 - December 1st 1812).
Catherine Wordsworth (September 6 1808 - June 4th 1812).
William "Willy" Wordsworth (May 12 1810 - 1883). Married Fanny Graham and had four children: Mary Louisa, William, Reginald and Gordon.
Wordsworth had for years been making plans to write a long philosophical poem in three parts, which he intended to call The Recluse. He had in 1798–99 started an autobiographical poem, which he never named but called the "poem to Coleridge", which would serve as an appendix to The Recluse. In 1804 he began expanding this autobiographical work, having decided to make it a prologue rather than an appendix to the larger work he planned. By 1805, he had completed it, but refused to publish such a personal work until he had completed the whole of The Recluse. The death of his brother, John, in 1805 affected him strongly.
The source of Wordsworth's philosophical allegiances as articulated in The Prelude and in such shorter works as "Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey" has been the source of much critical debate. While it had long been supposed that Wordsworth relied chiefly on Coleridge for philosophical guidance, more recent scholarship has suggested that Wordsworth's ideas may have been formed years before he and Coleridge became friends in the mid 1790s. While in Revolutionary Paris in 1792, the twenty-two year old Wordsworth made the acquaintance of the mysterious traveller John "Walking" Stewart (1747-1822), who was nearing the end of a thirty-years' peregrination from Madras, India, through Persia and Arabia, across Africa and all of Europe, and up through the fledgling United States. By the time of their association, Stewart had published an ambitious work of original materialist philosophy entitled The Apocalypse of Nature (London, 1791), to which many of Wordsworth's philosophical sentiments are likely indebted.
In 1807, his Poems in Two Volumes were published, including "Ode:Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood". Up to this point Wordsworth was known publicly only for Lyrical Ballads, and he hoped this collection would cement his reputation. Its reception was lukewarm, however. For a time (starting in 1810), Wordsworth and Coleridge were estranged over the latter's opium addiction. Two of his children, Thomas and Catherine, died in 1812. The following year, he received an appointment as Distributor of Stamps for Westmorland, and the £400 per year income from the post made him financially secure. His family, including Dorothy, moved to Rydal Mount, Ambleside (between Grasmere and Rydal Water) in 1813, where he spent the rest of his life.
In 1814 he published The Excursion as the second part of the three-part The Recluse. He had not completed the first and third parts, and never would complete them. However, he did write a poetic Prospectus to "The Recluse" in which he lays out the structure and intent of the poem. The Prospectus contains some of Wordsworth's most famous lines on the relation between the human mind and nature:
My voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external World Is fitted:--and how exquisitely, too, Theme this but little heard of among Men, The external World is fitted to the Mind . . .
Some modern critics recognise a decline in his works beginning around the mid-1810s. But this decline was perhaps more a change in his lifestyle and beliefs, since most of the issues that characterise his early poetry (loss, death, endurance, separation, abandonment) were resolved in his writings. But, by 1820 he enjoyed the success accompanying a reversal in the contemporary critical opinion of his earlier works. Following the death of his friend the painter William Green in 1823, Wordsworth mended relations with Coleridge. The two were fully reconciled by 1828, when they toured the Rhineland together. Dorothy suffered from a severe illness in 1829 that rendered her an invalid for the remainder of her life. In 1835, Wordsworth gave Annette and Caroline the money they needed for support.
Wordsworth received an honorary Doctor of Civil Law degree in 1838 from Durham University, and the same honour from Oxford University the next year. In 1842 the government awarded him a civil list pension amounting to £300 a year. With the death in 1843 of Robert Southey, Wordsworth became the Poet Laureate. When his daughter, Dora, died in 1847, his production of poetry came to a standstill.
William Wordsworth died of pneumonia on the 23rd April 1850 and was buried at St. Oswald's church in Grasmere. His widow Mary published his lengthy autobiographical "poem to Coleridge" as The Prelude several months after his death. Though this failed to arouse great interest in 1850, it has since come to be recognised as his masterpiece.