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PART THE SECOND – SONNETS DEDICATED TO LIBERTY

TO THE DAISY

 
  In youth from rock to rock I went
  From hill to hill, in discontent
  Of pleasure high and turbulent,
          Most pleas'd when most uneasy;
  But now my own delights I make,
  My thirst at every rill can slake,
  And gladly Nature's love partake
          Of thee, sweet Daisy!
 
 
  When soothed a while by milder airs,
  Thee Winter in the garland wears 10
  That thinly shades his few grey hairs;
           Spring cannot shun thee;
  Whole summer fields are thine by right;
  And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
  Doth in thy crimson head delight
           When rains are on thee.
 
 
  In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
  Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane;
  If welcome once thou count'st it gain;
           Thou art not daunted, 20
  Nor car'st if thou be set at naught;
  And oft alone in nooks remote
  We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
           When such are wanted.
 
 
  Be Violets in their secret mews
  The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse;
  Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews
          Her head impearling;
  Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
  Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30
  Thou art indeed by many a claim
          The Poet's darling.
 
 
  If to a rock from rains he fly,
  Or, some bright day of April sky,
  Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie
          Near the green holly,
  And wearily at length should fare;
  He need but look about, and there
  Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare
          His melancholy. 40
 
 
  A hundred times, by rock or bower,
  Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,
  Have I derived from thy sweet power
          Some apprehension;
  Some steady love; some brief delight;
  Some memory that had taken flight;
  Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
          Or stray invention.
 
 
  If stately passions in me burn,
  And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50
  I drink out of an humbler urn
          A lowlier pleasure;
  The homely sympathy that heeds
  The common life, our nature breeds;
  A wisdom fitted to the needs
          Of hearts at leisure.
 
 
  When, smitten by the morning ray,
  I see thee rise alert and gay,
  Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play
          With kindred motion: 60
  At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press
  The ground, as if in thankfulness,
  Without some feeling, more or less,
          Of true devotion.
 
 
  And all day long I number yet,
  All seasons through, another debt,
  Which I wherever thou art met,
          To thee am owing;
  An instinct call it, a blind sense;
  A happy, genial influence, 70
  Coming one knows not how nor whence,
          Nor whither going.
 
 
  Child of the Year! that round dost run
  Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
  And chearful when the day's begun
          As morning Leveret,
  Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain;
  Thou wilt be more belov'd by men
  In times to come; thou not in vain
          Art Nature's Favorite. 80
 

LOUISA

* * * * *

 
  I met Louisa in the shade;
  And, having seen that lovely Maid,
  Why should I fear to say
  That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong;
  And down the rocks can leap along,
  Like rivulets in May?
 
 
  And she hath smiles to earth unknown;
  Smiles, that with motion of their own
  Do spread, and sink, and rise;
  That come and go with endless play, 10
  And ever, as they pass away,
  Are hidden in her eyes.
 
 
  She loves her fire, her Cottage-home;
  Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
  In weather rough and bleak;
  And when against the wind she strains,
  Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains
  That sparkle on her cheek.
 
 
  Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon',
  If I with her but half a noon 20
  May sit beneath the walls
  Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
  When up she winds along the brook,
  To hunt the waterfalls.
 

FIDELITY

* * * * *

 
  A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
  A cry as of a Dog or Fox;
  He halts, and searches with his eyes
  Among the scatter'd rocks:
  And now at distance can discern
  A stirring in a brake of fern;
  From which immediately leaps out
  A Dog, and yelping runs about.
 
 
  The Dog is not of mountain breed;
  It's motions, too, are wild and shy; 10
  With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
  Unusual in its' cry:
  Nor is there any one in sight
  All round, in Hollow or on Height;
  Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
  What is the Creature doing here?
 
 
  It was a Cove, a huge Recess,
  That keeps till June December's snow;
  A lofty Precipice in front,
  A silent Tarn [1] below! 20
  Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
  Remote from public Road or Dwelling,
  Pathway, or cultivated land;
  From trace of human foot or hand.
 

[Footnote 1: A Tarn is a small Mere or Lake mostly high up in the mountains.]

 
  There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
  Send through the Tarn a lonely chear;
  The Crags repeat the Raven's croak,
  In symphony austere;
  Thither the Rainbow comes, the Cloud;
  And Mists that spread the flying shroud; 30
  And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
  That, if it could, would hurry past,
  But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.
 
 
  Not knowing what to think, a while
  The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
  Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,
  As quickly as he may;
  Nor far had gone before he found
  A human skeleton on the ground,
  Sad sight! the Shepherd with a sigh 40
  Looks round, to learn the history.
 
 
  From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
  The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
  At length upon the Shepherd's mind
  It breaks, and all is clear:
  He instantly recall'd the Name,
  And who he was, and whence he came;
  Remember'd, too, the very day
  On which the Traveller pass'd this way.
 
 
  But hear a wonder now, for sake 50
  Of which this mournful Tale I tell!
  A lasting monument of words
  This wonder merits well.
  The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
  Repeating the same timid cry,
  This Dog had been through three months' space
  A Dweller in that savage place.
 
 
  Yes, proof was plain that since the day
  On which the Traveller thus had died
  The Dog had watch'd about the spot, 60
  Or by his Master's side:
  How nourish'd here through such long time
  He knows, who gave that love sublime,
  And gave that strength of feeling, great
  Above all human estimate.
 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT

* * * * *

 
  She was a Phantom of delight
  When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
  A lovely Apparition, sent
  To be a moment's ornament;
  Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
  Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
  But all things else about her drawn
  From May-time and the chearful Dawn;
  A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
  To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10
 
 
  I saw her upon nearer view,
  A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
  Her household motions light and free,
  And steps of virgin liberty;
  A countenance in which did meet
  Sweet records, promises as sweet;
  A Creature not too bright or good
  For human nature's daily food;
  For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
  Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20
 
 
  And now I see with eye serene
  The very pulse of the machine;
  A Being breathing thoughtful breath;
  A Traveller betwixt life and death;
  The reason firm, the temperate will,
  Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
  A perfect Woman; nobly plann'd,
  To warn, to comfort, and command;
  And yet a Spirit still, and bright
  With something of an angel light. 30
 

The REDBREAST and the BUTTERFLY

 
  Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
  The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
      Our little English Robin;
  The Bird that comes about our doors
  When Autumn winds are sobbing?
  Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
      Their Thomas in Finland,
      And Russia far inland?
  The Bird, whom by some name or other
  All men who know thee call their Brother, 10
  The Darling of Children and men?
  Could Father Adam open his eyes,
  And see this sight beneath the skies,
  He'd wish to close them again.
 
 
  If the Butterfly knew but his friend
  Hither his flight he would bend,
  And find his way to me
  Under the branches of the tree:
  In and out, he darts about;
  His little heart is throbbing: 20
  Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
      Our consecrated Robin!
  That, after their bewildering,
  Did cover with leaves the little children,
      So painfully in the wood?
 
 
  What ail'd thee Robin that thou could'st pursue
      A beautiful Creature,
  That is gentle by nature?
  Beneath the summer sky
  From flower to flower let him fly; 30
  'Tis all that he wishes to do.
 
 
  The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
  He is the Friend of our summer gladness:
  What hinders, then, that ye should be
  Playmates in the sunny weather,
  And fly about in the air together?
  Like the hues of thy breast
  His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
  A brother he seems of thine own:
  If thou would'st be happy in thy nest, 40
  O pious Bird! whom Man loves best,
  Love him, or leave him alone!
 

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

* * * * *

 
    One morning (raw it was and wet,
    A foggy day in winter time)
    A Woman in the road I met,
    Not old, though something past her prime:
    Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
  And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
 
 
    The ancient Spirit is not dead;
    Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
    Proud was I that my country bred
    Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10
    She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;
  I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.
 
 
    When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
    With the first word I had to spare
    I said to her, "Beneath your Cloak
    What's that which on your arm you bear?"
    She answer'd soon as she the question heard,
  "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."
 
 
    And, thus continuing, she said,
    "I had a Son, who many a day 20
    Sail'd on the seas; but he is dead;
    In Denmark he was cast away;
    And I have been as far as Hull, to see
  What clothes he might have left, or other property."
 
 
    "The Bird and Cage they both were his;
    'Twas my Son's Bird; and neat and trim
    He kept it: many voyages
    This Singing-bird hath gone with him;
    When last he sail'd he left the Bird behind;
  As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind." 30
 
 
    "He to a Fellow-lodger's care
    Had left it, to be watch'd and fed,
    Till he came back again; and there
    I found it when my Son was dead;
    And now, God help me for my little wit!
  I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it."
 

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE

[Footnote: Common Pilewort.]

* * * * *

 
  Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
  Let them live upon their praises;
  Long as there's a sun that sets
  Primroses will have their glory;
  Long as there are Violets,
  They will have a place in story:
  There's a flower that shall be mine,
  'Tis the little Celandine.
 
 
  Eyes of some men travel far
  For the finding of a star; 10
  Up and down the heavens they go,
  Men that keep a mighty rout!
  I'm as great as they, I trow,
  Since the day I found thee out,
  Little flower! – I'll make a stir
  Like a great Astronomer.
 
 
  Modest, yet withal an Elf
  Bold, and lavish of thyself,
  Since we needs must first have met
  I have seen thee, high and low, 20
  Thirty years or more, and yet
  'Twas a face I did not know;
  Thou hast now, go where I may,
  Fifty greetings in a day.
 
 
  Ere a leaf is on a bush,
  In the time before the Thrush
  Has a thought about it's nest,
  Thou wilt come with half a call,
  Spreading out thy glossy breast
  Like a careless Prodigal; 20
  Telling tales about the sun,
  When we've little warmth, or none.
 
 
  Poets, vain men in their mood!
  Travel with the multitude;
  Never heed them; I aver
  That they all are wanton Wooers;
  But the thrifty Cottager,
  Who stirs little out of doors,
  Joys to spy thee near her home,
  Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40
 
 
  Comfort have thou of thy merit,
  Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
  Careless of thy neighbourhood,
  Thou dost shew thy pleasant face
  On the moor, and in the wood.
  In the lane – there's not a place,
  Howsoever mean it be,
  But 'tis good enough for thee.
 
 
  Ill befal the yellow Flowers,
  Children of the flaring hours! 50
  Buttercups, that will be seen,
  Whether we will see or no;
  Others, too, of lofty mien;
  They have done as worldlings do,
  Taken praise that should be thine,
  Little, humble Celandine!
 
 
  Prophet of delight and mirth,
  Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
  Herald of a mighty band,
  Of a joyous train ensuing, 60
  Singing at my heart's command,
  In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
  I will sing, as doth behove,
  Hymns in praise of what I love!
 

TO THE SAME FLOWER

 
  Pleasures newly found are sweet
  When they lie about our feet:
  February last my heart
  First at sight of thee was glad;
  All unheard of as thou art,
  Thou must needs, I think, have had,
  Celandine! and long ago,
  Praise of which I nothing know.
 
 
  I have not a doubt but he,
  Whosoe'er the man might be, 10
  Who the first with pointed rays,
  (Workman worthy to be sainted)
  Set the Sign-board in a blaze,
  When the risen sun he painted,
  Took the fancy from a glance
  At thy glittering countenance.
 
 
  Soon as gentle breezes bring
  News of winter's vanishing,
  And the children build their bowers,
  Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mold 20
  All about with full-blown flowers,
  Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
  With the proudest Thou art there,
  Mantling in the tiny square.
 
 
  Often have I sigh'd to measure
  By myself a lonely pleasure;
  Sigh'd to think, I read a book
  Only read perhaps by me;
  Yet I long could overlook
  Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30
  And thy arch and wily ways,
  And thy store of other praise.
 
 
  Blithe of heart, from week to week
  Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
  While the patient Primrose sits
  Like a Beggar in the cold,
  Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,
  Slipp'st into thy shelter'd hold:
  Bright as any of the train
  When ye all are out again. 40
 
 
  Thou art not beyond the moon,
  But a thing "beneath our shoon;"
  Let, as old Magellen did,
  Others roam about the sea;
  Build who will a pyramid;
  Praise it is enough for me,
  If there be but three or four
  Who will love my little Flower.
 

CHARACTER of the HAPPY WARRIOR

 
  Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
  Whom every Man in arms should wish to be?
  – It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
  Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
  Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
  Whose high endeavours are an inward light
  That make the path before him always bright:
  Who, with a natural instinct to discern
  What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
  Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
  But makes his moral being his prime care;
  Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain,
  And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
  Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
  In face of these doth exercise a power
  Which is our human-nature's highest dower;
  Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
  Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
  By objects, which might force the soul to abate
  Her feeling, render'd more compassionate; 20
  Is placable because occasions rise
  So often that demand such sacrifice;
  More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
  As tempted more; more able to endure,
  As more expos'd to suffering and distress;
  Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
  Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
  Upon that law as on the best of friends;
  Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
  To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
  And what in quality or act is best
  Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
  He fixes good on good alone, and owes
  To virtue every triumph that he knows:
  – Who, if he rise to station of command,
  Rises by open means; and there will stand
  On honourable terms, or else retire,
  And in himself possess his own desire;
  Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
  Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
  And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
  For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state;
  Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
  Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
  Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
  Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
  A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
  But who, if he be called upon to face
  Some awful moment to which heaven has join'd
  Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 50
  Is happy as a Lover; and attired
  With sudden brightness like a Man inspired;
  And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
  In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
  Or if an unexpected call succeed,
  Come when it will, is equal to the need:
  – He who, though thus endued as with a sense
  And faculty for storm and turbulence,
  Is yet a Soul whose master bias leans
  To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
  Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
  Are at his heart; and such fidelity
  It is his darling passion to approve;
  More brave for this, that he hath much to love:
  'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
  Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
  Or left unthought-of in obscurity,
  Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
  Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
  Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
  Where what he most doth value must be won;
  Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
  Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
  Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
  Looks forward, persevering to the last,
  From well to better, daily self-surpast:
  Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
  For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
  Or He must go to dust without his fame,
  And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80
  Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
  And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
  His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause;
  This is the happy Warrior; this is He
  Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
 

* * * * *

The above Verses mere written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

 
  When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,
  Eustace pointed with his lance
  To the Horn which there was hanging;
  Horn of the inheritance.
  Horn it was which none could sound,
  No one upon living ground,
  Save He who came as rightful Heir
  To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.
 
 
  Heirs from ages without record
  Had the House of Lucie born, 10
  Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
  By the proof upon the Horn:
  Each at the appointed hour
  Tried the Horn, it own'd his power;
  He was acknowledged: and the blast
  Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.
 
 
  With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
  And to Hubert thus said he,
  "What I speak this Horn shall witness
  For thy better memory. 20
  Hear, then, and neglect me not!
  At this time, and on this spot,
  The words are utter'd from my heart,
  As my last earnest prayer ere we depart."
 
 
  "On good service we are going
  Life to risk by sea and land;
  In which course if Christ our Saviour
  Do my sinful soul demand,
  Hither come thou back straightway,
  Hubert, if alive that day; 30
  Return, and sound the Horn, that we
  May have a living House still left in thee!"
 
 
  "Fear not," quickly answer'd Hubert;
  "As I am thy Father's son,
  What thou askest, noble Brother,
  With God's favour shall be done."
  So were both right well content:
  From the Castle forth they went.
  And at the head of their Array
  To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40
 
 
  Side by side they fought (the Lucies
  Were a line for valour fam'd)
  And where'er their strokes alighted
  There the Saracens were tam'd.
  Whence, then, could it come the thought,
  By what evil spirit brought?
  Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
  His Brother's life, for Land's and Castle's sake?
 
 
  "Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
  "Deep he lies in Jordan flood." – 50
  Stricken by this ill assurance,
  Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
  "Take your earnings." – Oh! that I
  Could have seen my Brother die!
  It was a pang that vex'd him then;
  And oft returned, again, and yet again.
 
 
  Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace!
  Nor of him were tidings heard.
  Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
  Back again to England steer'd. 60
  To his Castle Hubert sped;
  He has nothing now to dread.
  But silent and by stealth he came,
  And at an hour which nobody could name.
 
 
  None could tell if it were night-time,
  Night or day, at even or morn;
  For the sound was heard by no one
  Of the proclamation-horn.
  But bold Hubert lives in glee:
  Months and years went smilingly; 70
  With plenty was his table spread;
  And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.
 
 
  Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
  And, as good men do, he sate
  At his board by these surrounded,
  Flourishing in fair estate.
  And, while thus in open day
  Once he sate, as old books say,
  A blast was utter'd from the Horn,
  Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80
 
 
  'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
  He is come to claim his right:
  Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
  Hear the challenge with delight.
  Hubert! though the blast be blown
  He is helpless and alone:
  Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
  And there he may be lodg'd, and thou be Lord.
 
 
  Speak! astounded Hubert cannot;
  And if power to speak he had, 90
  All are daunted, all the household
  Smitten to the heart, and sad.
  'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
  Living Man, it must be he!
  Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
  And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.
 
 
  Long, and long was he unheard of:
  To his Brother then he came,
  Made confession, ask'd forgiveness,
  Ask'd it by a Brother's name, 100
  And by all the saints in heaven;
  And of Eustace was forgiv'n:
  Then in a Convent went to hide
  His melancholy head, and there he died.
 
 
  But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels
  Had preserv'd from Murderers' hands,
  And from Pagan chains had rescued,
  Liv'd with honour on his lands.
  Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:
  And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 110
  A long posterity renown'd,
  Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.
 

THE AFFLICTION of MARGARET – OF —

* * * * *

 
  Where art thou, my beloved Son,
  Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
  Oh find me prosperous or undone!
  Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
  Why am I ignorant of the same
  That I may rest; and neither blame,
  Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
 
 
  Seven years, alas, to have received
  No tidings of an only child;
  To have despair'd, and have believ'd, 10
  And be for evermore beguil'd;
  Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
  I catch at them, and then I miss;
  Was ever darkness like to this?
 
 
  He was among the prime in worth,
  An object beauteous to behold;
  Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
  Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
  If things ensued that wanted grace,
  As hath been said, they were not base; 20
  And never blush was on my face.
 
 
  Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
  When full of play and childish cares,
  What power hath even his wildest scream,
  Heard by his Mother unawares!
  He knows it not, he cannot guess:
  Years to a Mother bring distress;
  But do not make her love the less.
 
 
  Neglect me! no I suffer'd long
  From that ill thought; and being blind, 30
  Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong;
  Kind mother have I been, as kind
  As ever breathed: " and that is true;
  I've wet my path with tears like dew,
  Weeping for him when no one knew.
 
 
  My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
  Hopeless of honour and of gain,
  Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
  Think not of me with grief and pain:
  I now can see with better eyes; 40
  And worldly grandeur I despise,
  And fortune with her gifts and lies
 
 
  Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
  And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
  They mount, how short a voyage brings
  The Wanderers back to their delight!
  Chains tie us down by land and sea;
  And wishes, vain as mine, may be
  All that is left to comfort thee.
 
 
  Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50
  Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
  Or thou upon a Desart thrown
  Inheritest the Lion's Den;
  Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
  Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
  An incommunicable sleep.
 
 
  I look for Ghosts; but none will force
  Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
  That there was ever intercourse
  Betwixt the living and the dead; 60
  For, surely, then I should have sight
  Of Him I wait for day and night,
  With love and longings infinite.
 
 
  My apprehensions come in crowds;
  I dread the rustling of the grass;
  The very shadows of the clouds
  Have power to shake me as they pass:
  I question things, and do not find
  One that will answer to my mind;
  And all the world appears unkind. 70
 
 
  Beyond participation lie
  My troubles, and beyond relief:
  If any chance to heave a sigh
  They pity me, and not my grief.
  Then come to me, my Son, or send
  Some tidings that my woes may end;
  I have no other earthly friend.
 

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES

* * * * *

 
  That way look, my Infant, lo!
  What a pretty baby show!
  See the Kitten on the Wall,
  Sporting with the leaves that fall,
  Wither'd leaves, one, two, and three,
  From the lofty Elder-tree!
  Through the calm and frosty air
  Of this morning bright and fair,
  Eddying round and round they sink
  Softly, slowly: one might think, 10
  From the motions that are made,
  Every little leaf convey'd
  Sylph or Faery hither tending,
  To this lower world descending,
  Each invisible and mute,
  In his wavering parachute.
  – But the Kitten, how she starts,
  Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts;
  First at one and then it's fellow
  Just as light and just as yellow; 20
  There are many now – now one —
  Now they stop; and there are none —
  What intenseness of desire
  In her upward eye of fire!
  With a tiger-leap half way
  Now she meets the coming prey,
  Lets it go as fast, and then
  Has it in her power again:
  Now she works with three or four,
  Like an Indian Conjuror; 30
  Quick as he in feats of art,
  Far beyond in joy of heart.
  Were her antics play'd in the eye
  Of a thousand Standers-by,
  Clapping hands with shout and stare,
  What would little Tabby care
  For the plaudits of the Crowd?
  Over happy to be proud,
  Over wealthy in the treasure
  Of her own exceeding pleasure! 40
 
 
  'Tis a pretty Baby-treat;
  Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:
  Here, for neither Babe or me,
  Other Play-mate can I see.
  Of the countless living things,
  That with stir of feet and wings,
  (In the sun or under shade
  Upon bough or grassy blade)
  And with busy revellings,
  Chirp and song, and murmurings, 50
  Made this Orchard's narrow space,
  And this Vale so blithe a place;
  Multitudes are swept away
  Never more to breathe the day:
  Some are sleeping; some in Bands
  Travell'd into distant Lands;
  Others slunk to moor and wood,
  Far from human neighbourhood,
  And, among the Kinds that keep
  With us closer fellowship, 60
  With us openly abide,
  All have laid their mirth aside,
  – Where is he that giddy Sprite,
  Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
  Who was blest as bird could be,
  Feeding in the apple-tree,
  Made such wanton spoil and rout,
  Turning blossoms inside out,
  Hung with head towards the ground,
  Flutter'd, perch'd; into a round 70
  Bound himself, and then unbound;
  Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin,
  Prettiest Tumbler ever seen,
  Light of heart, and light of limb,
  What is now become of Him?
  Lambs, that through the mountains went
  Frisking, bleating merriment,
  When the year was in it's prime,
  They are sober'd by this time.
  If you look to vale or hill, 80
  If you listen, all is still,
  Save a little neighbouring Rill;
  That from out the rocky ground
  Strikes a solitary sound.
  Vainly glitters hill and plain,
  And the air is calm in vain;
  Vainly Morning spreads the lure
  Of a sky serene and pure;
  Creature none can she decoy
  Into open sign of joy: 90
  Is it that they have a fear
  Of the dreary season near?
  Or that other pleasures be
  Sweeter even than gaiety?
 
 
  Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
  In the impenetrable cell
  Of the silent heart which Nature
  Furnishes to every Creature,
  Whatsoe'er we feel and know
  Too sedate for outward show, 100
  Such a light of gladness breaks,
  Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,
  Spreads with such a living grace
  O'er my little Laura's face;
  Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
  Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
  That almost I could repine
  That your transports are not mine,
  That I do not wholly fare
  Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair! 110
  And I will have my careless season
  Spite of melancholy reason,
  Will walk through life in such a way
  That, when time brings on decay,
  Now and then I may possess
  Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
  – Pleas'd by any random toy;
  By a Kitten's busy joy,
  Or an infant's laughing eye
  Sharing in the extacy; 120
  I would fare like that or this,
  Find my wisdom in my bliss;
  Keep the sprightly soul awake,
  And have faculties to take
  Even from things by sorrow wrought
  Matter for a jocund thought;
  Spite of care, and spite of grief,
  To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.
 

THE SEVEN SISTERS, OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

* * * * *

 
  Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
  All Children of one Mother:
  I could not say in one short day
  What love they bore each other,
  A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
  Seven Sisters that together dwell;
  But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
  Their Father, took of them no thought,
  He loved the Wars so well.
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 10
  The Solitude of Binnorie!
 
 
  Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
  And from the shores of Erin,
  Across the wave, a Rover brave
  To Binnorie is steering:
  Right onward to the Scottish strand
  The gallant ship is borne;
  The Warriors leap upon the land,
  And hark! the Leader of the Band
  Hath blown his bugle horn. 20
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
  The Solitude of Binnorie.
 
 
  Beside a Grotto of their own,
  With boughs above them closing,
  The Seven are laid, and in the shade
  They lie like Fawns reposing.
  But now, upstarting with affright
  At noise of Man and Steed,
  Away they fly to left to right —
  Of your fair household, Father Knight, 30
  Methinks you take small heed!
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
  The Solitude of Binnorie.
 
 
  Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
  And, over Hill and Hollow,
  With menace proud, and insult loud,
  The youthful Rovers follow.
  Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:
  Enough for him to find
  The empty House when he comes home; 40
  For us your yellow ringlets comb,
  For us be fair and kind!"
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
  The Solitude of Binnorie.
 
 
  Some close behind, some side by side,
  Like clouds in stormy weather,
  They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,
  And let us die together."
  A Lake was near; the shore was steep;
  There never Foot had been; 50
  They ran, and with a desperate leap
  Together plung'd into the deep,
  Nor ever more were seen.
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
  The Solitude of Binnorie.
 
 
  The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
  As through the glen it rambles,
  Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
  For those seven lovely Campbells.
  Seven little Islands, green and bare, 60
  Have risen from out the deep:
  The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
  By Faeries are all buried there,
  And there together sleep.
  Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully
  The Solitude of Binnorie.
 

To H. C.,

SIX YEARS OLD

* * * * *

 
  O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
  Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
  And fittest to unutterable thought
  The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
  Thou Faery Voyager! that dost float
  In such clear water, that thy Boat
  May rather seem
  To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
  Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
  Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 10
  O blessed Vision! happy Child!
  That art so exquisitely wild,
  I think of thee with, many fears
  For what may be thy lot in future years.
 
 
  I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
  Lord of thy house and hospitality;
  And grief, uneasy Lover! never rest
  But when she sate within the touch of thee.
 
 
  Oh! too industrious folly!
  Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! 20
  Nature will either end thee quite;
  Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
  Preserve for thee, by individual right,
  A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
  What hast Thou to do with sorrow,
  Or the injuries of tomorrow?
 
 
  Thou art a Dew-drop, which, the morn brings forth,
  Not doom'd to jostle with unkindly shocks;
  Or to be trail'd along the soiling earth;
  A Gem that glitters while it lives, 30
  And no forewarning gives;
  But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
  Slips in a moment out of life.
 

Among all lovely things my Love had been

* * * * *

 
  Among all lovely things my Love had been;
  Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
  About her home; but she had never seen
  A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.
 
 
  While riding near her home one stormy night
  A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;
  I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
  And from my Horse I leapt; great joy had I.
 
 
  Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,
  To bear it with me through the stormy night: 10
  And, as before, it shone without dismay;
  Albeit putting forth a fainter light.
 
 
  When to the Dwelling of my Love I came,
  I went into the Orchard quietly;
  And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name,
  Laid safely by itself, beneath a Tree.
 
 
  The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
  At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the Tree:
  I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here!"
  Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! 20
 

I travell'd among unknown Men

* * * * *

 
  I travell'd among unknown Men,
    In Lands beyond the Sea;
  Nor England! did I know till then
    What love I bore to thee.
 
 
  'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
    Nor will I quit thy shore
  A second time; for still I seem
    To love thee more and more.
 
 
  Among thy mountains did I feel
    The joy of my desire; 10
  And She I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
    Beside an English fire.
 
 
  Thy mornings shew'd – thy nights conceal'd
    The bowers where Lucy play'd;
  And thine is, too, the last green field
    Which Lucy's eyes survey'd!
 

ODE TO DUTY

* * * * *

 
  Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
  O Duty! if that name thou love
  Who art a Light to guide, a Rod
  To check the erring, and reprove;
  Thou who art victory and law
  When empty terrors overawe;
  From vain temptations dost set free;
  From strife and from despair; a glorious ministry.
 
 
  There are who ask not if thine eye
  Be on them; who, in love and truth, 10
  Where no misgiving is, rely
  Upon the genial sense of youth:
  Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
  Who do thy work, and know it not:
  May joy be theirs while life shall last!
  And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!
 
 
  Serene will be our days and bright,
  And happy will our nature be,
  When love is an unerring light,
  And joy its own security. 20
  And bless'd are they who in the main
  This faith, even now, do entertain:
  Live in the spirit of this creed;
  Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
 
 
  I, loving freedom, and untried;
  No sport of every random gust,
  Yet being to myself a guide,
  Too blindly have reposed my trust:
  Resolved that nothing e'er should press
  Upon my present happiness, 30
  I shoved unwelcome tasks away;
  But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
 
 
  Through no disturbance of my soul,
  Or strong compunction in me wrought,
  I supplicate for thy controul;
  But in the quietness of thought:
  Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
  I feel the weight of chance desires:
  My hopes no more must change their name,
  I long for a repose which ever is the same. 40
 
 
  Yet not the less would I throughout
  Still act according to the voice
  Of my own wish; and feel past doubt
  That my submissiveness was choice:
  Not seeking in the school of pride
  For "precepts over dignified,"
  Denial and restraint I prize
  No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.
 
 
  Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
  The Godhead's most benignant grace; 50
  Nor know we any thing so fair
  As is the smile upon thy face;
  Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
  And Fragrance in thy footing treads;
  Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
  And the most ancient Heavens through Thee are fresh and strong.
 
 
  To humbler functions, awful Power!
  I call thee: I myself commend
  Unto thy guidance from this hour;
  Oh! let my weakness have an end! 60
  Give unto me, made lowly wise,
  The spirit of self-sacrifice;
  The confidence of reason give;
  And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
 

POEMS COMPOSED DURING A TOUR, CHIEFLY ON FOOT

1. BEGGARS

 
    She had a tall Man's height, or more;
    No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
    A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore,
    A Mantle reaching to her feet:
    What other dress she had I could not know;
  Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
 
 
    In all my walks, through field or town,
    Such Figure had I never seen:
    Her face was of Egyptian brown:
    Fit person was she for a Queen, 10
    To head those ancient Amazonian files:
  Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.
 
 
    Before me begging did she stand,
    Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
    Grief after grief: – on English Land
    Such woes I knew could never be;
    And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature
  Was beautiful to see; a Weed of glorious feature!
 
 
    I left her, and pursued my way;
    And soon before me did espy 20
    A pair of little Boys at play,
    Chasing a crimson butterfly;
    The Taller follow'd with his hat in hand,
  Wreath'd round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land.
 
 
    The Other wore a rimless crown,
    With leaves of laurel stuck about:
    And they both follow'd up and down,
    Each whooping with a merry shout;
    Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;
  And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold. 30
 
 
    They bolted on me thus, and lo!
    Each ready with a plaintive whine;
    Said I, "Not half an hour ago
    Your Mother has had alms of mine."
    "That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead."
  "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."
 
 
    "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."
    "Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie";
    "It was your Mother, as I say – "
    And in the twinkling of an eye, 40
    "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,
  Off to some other play they both together flew.
 

2. TO A SKY-LARK

 
  Up 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 all the heav'ns about thee ringing,
    Lift me, guide me, till I find
  That spot which seems so to thy mind!
 
 
  I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary,
    And today my heart is weary;
    Had I now the soul of a Faery, 10
      Up to thee would I fly.
  There is madness about thee, and joy divine
      In that song of thine;
  Up with me, up with me, high and high,
  To thy banqueting-place in the sky! 15
      Joyous as Morning,
    Thou 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 loth 20
  To be such a Traveller as I.
      Happy, happy Liver!
  With a soul as strong as a mountain River,
  Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
    Joy and jollity be with us both!
    Hearing thee, or else some other,
      As merry a Brother,
  I on the earth will go plodding on,
  By myself, chearfully, till the day is done.
 

3. With how sad Steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the Sky

 
  "With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky.
  How silently, and with how wan a face!" [2]
  Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
  Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
  Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
  Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
  The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
  Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I
  The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be
  And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
  Should sally forth to keep thee company.
  What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
  Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
  But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
  Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
 

[Footnote 2: From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.]

4. ALICE FELL

 
  The Post-boy drove with fierce career,
  For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
  When suddenly I seem'd to hear
  A moan, a lamentable sound.
 
 
  As if the wind blew many ways
  I heard the sound, and more and more:
  It seem'd to follow with the Chaise,
  And still I heard it as before.
 
 
  At length I to the Boy call'd out,
  He stopp'd his horses at the word; 10
  But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
  Nor aught else like it could be heard.
 
 
  The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
  The horses scamper'd through the rain;
  And soon I heard upon the blast
  The voice, and bade him halt again.
 
 
  Said I, alighting on the ground,
  "What can it be, this piteous moan?"
  And there a little Girl I found,
  Sitting behind the Chaise, alone. 20
 
 
  "My Cloak!" the word was last and first,
  And loud and bitterly she wept,
  As if her very heart would burst;
  And down from off the Chaise she leapt.
 
 
  "What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!"
  I saw it in the wheel entangled,
  A weather beaten Rag as e'er
  From any garden scare-crow dangled.
 
 
  'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
  Her help she lent, and with good heed 30
  Together we released the Cloak;
  A wretched, wretched rag indeed!
 
 
  "And whither are you going, Child,
  To night along these lonesome ways?"
  "To Durham" answer'd she half wild —
  "Then come with me into the chaise."
 
 
  She sate like one past all relief;
  Sob after sob she forth did send
  In wretchedness, as if her grief
  Could never, never, have an end. 40
 
 
  "My Child, in Durham do you dwell?"
  She check'd herself in her distress,
  And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
  I'm fatherless and motherless."
 
 
  "And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
  And then, as if the thought would choke
  Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
  And all was for her tatter'd Cloak.
 
 
  The chaise drove on; our journey's end
  Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, 50
  As if she'd lost her only friend
  She wept, nor would be pacified.
 
 
  Up to the Tavern-door we post;
  Of Alice and her grief I told;
  And I gave money to the Host,
  To buy a new Cloak for the old.
 
 
  "And let it be of duffil grey,
  As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
  Proud Creature was she the next day,
  The little Orphan, Alice Fell! 60
 

5. RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE

 
  There was a roaring in the wind all night;
  The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
  But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
  The birds are singing in the distant woods;
  Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
  The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
  And all the air is fill'd with pleasant noise of waters.
 
 
  All things that love the sun are out of doors;
  The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
  The grass is bright with rain-drops; on the moors 10
  The Hare is running races in her mirth;
  And with her feet she from the plashy earth
  Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun,
  Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
 
 
  I was a Traveller then upon the moor;
  I saw the Hare that rac'd about with joy;
  I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
  Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
  The pleasant season did my heart employ:
  My old remembrances went from me wholly; 20
  And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.
 
 
  But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
  Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
  As high as we have mounted in delight
  In our dejection do we sink as low,
  To me that morning did it happen so;
  And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;
  Dim sadness, & blind thoughts I knew not nor could name.
 
 
  I heard the Sky-lark singing in the sky;
  And I bethought me of the playful Hare: 30
  Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
  Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
  Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
  But there may come another day to me,
  Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.
 
 
  My whole life I have liv'd in pleasant thought,
  As if life's business were a summer mood;
  As if all needful things would come unsought
  To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
  But how can He expect that others should 40
  Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
  Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
 
 
  I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
  The sleepless Soul that perish'd in its pride;
  Of Him who walk'd in glory and in joy
  Behind his plough, upon the mountain-side:
  By our own spirits are we deified;
  We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
  But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.
 
 
  Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 50
  A leading from above, a something given,
  Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,
  When up and down my fancy thus was driven,
  And I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
  I saw a Man before me unawares:
  The oldest Man he seem'd that ever wore grey hairs.
 
 
  My course I stopped as soon as I espied
  The Old Man in that naked wilderness:
  Close by a Pond, upon the further side,
  He stood alone: a minute's space I guess 60
  I watch'd him, he continuing motionless:
  To the Pool's further margin then I drew;
  He being all the while before me full in view.
 
 
  As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
  Couch'd on the bald top of an eminence;
  Wonder to all who do the same espy
  By what means it could thither come, and whence;
  So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
  Like a Sea-beast crawl'd forth, which on a shelf
  Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself. 70
 
 
  Such seem'd this Man, not all alive nor dead,
  Nor all asleep; in his extreme old age:
  His body was bent double, feet and head
  Coming together in their pilgrimage;
  As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
  Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
  A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
 
 
  Himself he propp'd, his body, limbs, and face,
  Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood:
  And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 80
  Beside the little pond or moorish flood
  Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood;
  That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
  And moveth altogether, if it move at all.
 
 
  At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond
  Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look
  Upon the muddy water, which he conn'd,
  As if he had been reading in a book:
  And now such freedom as I could I took;
  And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 90
  "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."
 
 
  A gentle answer did the Old Man make,
  In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
  And him with further words I thus bespake,
  "What kind of work is that which you pursue?
  This is a lonesome place for one like you."
  He answer'd me with pleasure and surprize;
  And there was, while he spake, a fire about his eyes.
 
 
  His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
  Yet each in solemn order follow'd each, 100
  With something of a lofty utterance drest;
  Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach
  Of ordinary men; a stately speech!
  Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
  Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.
 
 
  He told me that he to this pond had come
  To gather Leeches, being old and poor:
  Employment hazardous and wearisome!
  And he had many hardships to endure:
  From Pond to Pond he roam'd, from moor to moor, 110
  Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance:
  And in this way he gain'd an honest maintenance.
 
 
  The Old Man still stood talking by my side;
  But now his voice to me was like a stream
  Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
  And the whole Body of the man did seem
  Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
  Or like a Man from some far region sent;
  To give me human strength, and strong admonishment.
 
 
  My former thoughts return'd: the fear that kills; 120
  The hope that is unwilling to be fed;
  Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
  And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
  And now, not knowing what the Old Man had said,
  My question eagerly did I renew,
  "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"
 
 
  He with a smile did then his words repeat;
  And said, that, gathering Leeches, far and wide
  He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
  The waters of the Ponds where they abide. 130
  "Once I could meet with them on every side;
  But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
  Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
 
 
  While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
  The Old Man's shape, and speech, all troubled me:
  In my mind's eye I seem'd to see him pace
  About the weary moors continually,
  Wandering about alone and silently.
  While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
  He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 140
 
 
  And soon with this he other matter blended,
  Chearfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
  But stately in the main; and, when he ended,
  I could have laugh'd myself to scorn, to find
  In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
  "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
  I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor."