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.