Lyrical Ballads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A simple child, dear brother Jim, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And in the church-yard cottage I Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet you are seven; I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The Guests are met, the Feast is set⁠— May’st hear the merry din.”

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

He holds him with his skinny hand, Quoth he, “There was a Ship⁠—” “Now get thee hence, thou gray-beard Loon! Or my Staff shall make thee skip.”

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

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

“The Ship was cheered, the Harbour cleared⁠— Merrily did we drop Below the Kirk, below the Hill, Below the Light-house top.

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

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

The Bride hath paced into the Hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her go The merry Minstrelsy.

We walked along, while bright and red Uprose 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 gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A 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 eye Upon the eastern mountaintop, To me he made reply:

“Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind.

“And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother.

“With rod and line my silent sport I plied by Derwent’s wave; And, coming to the church, stopp’d short Beside my daughter’s grave.

“Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sung;⁠—she would have been A very nightingale.

“Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e’er had loved before.