Lyrical Ballads quotes

but I have endeavoured utterly to reject them as a mechanical device of style, or as a family language which Writers in metre seem to lay claim to by prescription.

I have wished to keep my Reader in the company of flesh and blood, persuaded that by so doing I shall interest him.

I am, however, well aware that others who pursue a different track may interest him likewise; I do not interfere with their claim, I only wish to prefer a different claim of my own.

not standing upon external testimony, but carried alive into the heart by passion; truth which is its own testimony, which gives strength and divinity to the tribunal to which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal.

Poetry is the image of man and nature.

The obstacles which stand in the way of the fidelity of the Biographer and Historian, and of their consequent utility, are incalculably greater than those which are to be encountered by the Poet who has an adequate notion of the dignity of his art.

The Man of Science, the Chemist and Mathematician, whatever difficulties and disgusts they may have had to struggle with, know and feel this.

However painful may be the objects with which the Anatomist’s knowledge is connected, he feels that his knowledge is pleasure; and where he has no pleasure he has no knowledge.

What then does the Poet? He considers man and the objects that surround him as acting and reacting upon each other, so as to produce an infinite complexity of pain and pleasure;

he cherishes and loves it in his solitude: the Poet, singing a song in which all human beings join with him, rejoices in the presence of truth as our visible friend and hourly companion.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science.

Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, “that he looks before and after.” He is the rock of defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science. Emphatically may it be said of the Poet, as Shakespeare hath said of man, “that he looks before and after.”

He is the rock of defence of human nature; an upholder and preserver, carrying everywhere with him relationship and love.

In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it …

The objects of the Poet’s thoughts are everywhere; though the eyes and senses of man are, it is true, his favourite guides, yet he will follow wheresoever he can find an atmosphere of sensation in which to move his wings.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge⁠—it is as immortal as the heart of man.

If the labours of Men of Science should ever create any material revolution, direct or indirect, in our condition, and in the impressions which we habitually receive, the Poet will sleep then no more than at present, but he will be ready to follow the …

… point out various causes why, when the style is manly, and the subject of some importance, words metrically arranged will long continue to impart such a pleasure to mankind as he who is sensible of the extent of that pleasure will be desirous to impart.

The end of Poetry is to produce excitement in coexistence with an overbalance of pleasure.

Now, by the supposition, excitement is an unusual and irregular state of the mind; ideas and feelings do not in that state succeed each other in accustomed order.

This is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself about the species till you have previously decided upon the genus?

Why take pains to prove that an ape is not a Newton when it is self-evident that he is not a man?

I have one request to make of my Reader, which is, that in judging these Poems he would decide by his own feelings genuinely, and not by reflection upon what will probably be the judgment of others.

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books, Or surely you’ll grow double.

The sun, above the mountain’s head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! And he is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! And he is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless⁠— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.

The little hedge-row birds That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression;

he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need.

He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.

—I asked him whither he was bound, and what The object of his journey:

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? What is’t that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still.

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle gray, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill;

But ever to himself he mutters, “Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

In distant countries I have been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy Man, a Man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone.

But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad high-way, I met; Along the broad high-way he came, His cheeks with tears were wet. Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a Lamb he had.

Upon the mountain did they feed, They throve, and we at home did thrive. —This lusty Lamb of all my store Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.

Six Children, Sir! had I to feed, Hard labour in a time of need! My pride was tamed, and in our grief I of the Parish ask’d relief. They said I was a wealthy man;

Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopp’d⁠— Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d.

Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, And I may say, that many a time I wished they all were gone: They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day.

but ’tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men.

There is a Thorn⁠—it looks so old, In truth, you’d find it hard to say How it could ever have been young⁠— It looks so old and gray.

Not higher than a two years’ child It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.

This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss, Which close beside the Thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant’s grave in size, As like as like can be:

But never, never any where, An infant’s grave was half so fair.

Now would you see this aged Thorn, This Pond, and beauteous Hill of moss, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross.

But Stephen to another Maid Had sworn another oath; And with this other Maid to church Unthinking Stephen went— Poor Martha! on that woeful day A cruel, cruel fire, they say, Into her bones was sent:

It dried her body like a cinder, And almost turned her brain to tinder.

They say, full six months after this, While yet the summer leaves were green, She to the mountaintop would go, And there was often seen. ’Tis said, a child was in her womb, As now to any eye was plain;

Some say, if to the Pond you go, And fix on it a steady view, The shadow of a babe you trace, A baby and a baby’s face, And that it looks at you;

Whene’er you look on it, ’tis plain The baby looks at you again.

And some had sworn an oath that she Should be to public justice brought; And for the little infant’s bones With spades they would have sought. But then the beauteous Hill of moss Before their eyes began to stir;

oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

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.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran: I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore, Our pleasant home, when Spring began, A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain.

My Boy was by my side, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And oftentimes I talked to him, In very idleness.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock; And thus to me he made reply; “At Kilve there was no weather-cock, And that’s the reason why.”

Oh dearest, dearest Boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.

It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch That stands beside our door.

My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done,

Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress And bring no book: for this one day We’ll give to idleness.

Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress

And bring no book: for this one day We’ll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar: We from today, my Friend, will date The opening of the year.

No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar: We from today, my Friend, will date The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.

Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.

Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid, Close by my Mother, in their native bowers; Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed—

I could not pray:⁠—through tears that fell in showers I saw our own dear home, that was no longer ours.

There was a Youth, whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say. ’Mid the green mountains many and many a song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.

Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed— I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers I saw our own dear home, that was no longer ours.

There was a Youth, whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say.

’Mid the green mountains many and many a song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May. When we began to tire of childish play We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day;

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress’d, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main.

The very ocean has its hour of rest.

I too was calm, though heavily distress’d! Oh me, how quiet sky and ocean were! My heart was healed within me, I was bless’d, And looked, and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

“Here will I dwell,” said I, “my whole life-long, Roaming the illimitable waters round: Here will I live:—of every friend disown’d, Here will I roam about the ocean-flood.”— To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pin’d, and wanted food.

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.

My heart is touched to think that men like these, Wild houseless Wanderers, were my first relief: How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease, And their long holiday that feared not grief!

For all belonged to all, and each was chief.

No plough their sinews strained; on grating road No wain they drove; and yet the yellow sheaf In every vale for their delight was stow’d; In every field, with milk their dairy overflow’d.

tell me whither—for no earthly friend Have I.—She ceased, and weeping turned away, As if because her tale was at an end She wept;—because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev’d my heart to think What man has made of man.

To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran;

And much it griev’d my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d: Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

An Old Man dwells, a little man, I’ve heard he once was tall.

Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he’s eighty.

No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round Had heard of Simon Lee; His Master’s dead, and no one now Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

Men, Dogs, and Horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick, His dwindled body’s half awry; His ancles they are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young he little knew Of husbandry or tillage;

My gentle Reader, I perceive How patiently you’ve waited, And I’m afraid that you expect Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short, I hope you’ll kindly take it: It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, I hope you’ll kindly take it:

It is no tale; but, should you think, Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see This Old Man doing all he could About the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand;

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. —I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning.

Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning.

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, But hear no murmuring:

and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, “Most musical, most melancholy” Bird!

A melancholy Bird? O idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy.

—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch!

’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!

And while the Pony moves his legs, In Johnny’s left hand you may see The green bough’s motionless and dead:

The Moon that shines above his head Is not more still and mute than he.

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

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

But then he is a Horse that thinks!

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

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

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

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

She listens, but she cannot hear The foot of horse, the voice of man;

The streams with softest sound are flowing, The grass you almost hear it growing, You hear it now if e’er you can.

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

And thus, to Betty’s question, he Made answer, like a Traveller bold, (His very words I give to you,) “The Cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, And the Sun did shine so cold.” —Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel’s story.

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

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

Few Sorrows hath she of her own, My Hope, my Joy, my Genevieve!

She loves me best, whene’er I sing The Songs, that make her grieve.

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

I told her, how he pin’d: and, ah!

The low, the deep, the pleading tone, With which I sang another’s Love, Interpreted my own.

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

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

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

And how, unknowing what he did, He leapt amid a murd’rous Band, And saved from Outrage worse than Death The Lady of the Land;

She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and maiden shame;

And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside; As conscious of my Look, she stepped— Then suddenly with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

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

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main.

She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue.

Suck, little Babe, oh suck again! It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

Thy lips I feel them, Baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away.

Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers prest. The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my Babe and me.

My little Babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost sucked thy fill. —Where art thou gone, my own dear Child? What wicked looks are those I see? Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me:

If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb! For I thy own dear Mother am. My love for thee has well been tried: I’ve sought thy Father far and wide. I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food;

I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We’ll find thy Father in the wood. Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away! And there, my babe, we’ll live for aye.”

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three:

“By thy long gray beard and thy glittering eye Now wherefore stoppest 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.

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

And now there came both Mist and Snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And Ice mast-high came floating by As green as Emerald.

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

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

The Ice was here, the Ice was there, The Ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, A wild and ceaseless sound.

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

The Ice was here, the Ice was there, The Ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, A wild and ceaseless sound.

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

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

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

And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work ’em woe:

For all averred, I had killed the Bird That made the Breeze to blow.

The breezes blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free:

We were the first that ever burst Into that silent Sea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The very deeps did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy Sea.

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

About, about, in reel and rout The Death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch’s oils, Burnt green and blue and white.

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

Ah well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young!

Instead of the Cross the Albatross About my neck was hung.

“So pass’d a weary time; each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye, When, looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was white as leprosy, And she was far liker Death than he; Her flesh made the still air cold.

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

The naked Hulk alongside came And the Twain were playing dice;

“The Game is done! I’ve won, I’ve won!” Quoth she, and whistled thrice.

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

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

Alone, alone, all all alone, Alone on the wide wide Sea;

And Christ would take no pity on My soul in agony.

The many men so beautiful, And they all dead did lie!

And a million million slimy things Lived on⁠—and so did I.

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

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

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

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

An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high:

But O! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!

Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

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

The moving Moon went up the sky And no where did abide:

Softly she was going up And a star or two beside—

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gusht from my heart, And I blessed them unaware!

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The Mariners all ’gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do:

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools⁠— We were a ghastly crew.

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

And now ’twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute:

And now it is an angel’s song That makes the heavens be mute.

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

It ceased: yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we silently sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the Ship Moved onward from beneath.

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen—

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

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

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart—

No voice; but O! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

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

Forthwith this frame of mind was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale, And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; The moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me; To him my tale I teach.

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech;

The moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me; To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper-bell Which biddeth me to prayer.

O wedding-guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ’twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk With a goodly company:—

Farewell, farewell! But this I tell To thee, thou wedding-guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small: For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

”

He went, like one that hath been stunned And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn.

Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Of five long winters!

While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light;

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And his bones lie in his paternal vale.— But there is matter for a second rhyme, And I to this would add another tale.

The moving accident is not my trade: To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: ’Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Three Aspens at three corners of a square, And one, not four yards distant, near a Well.

I looked upon the hills both far and near, More doleful place did never eye survey;

It seemed as if the spring-time came not here, And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, When one, who was in Shepherd’s garb attired, Came up the Hollow. Him did I accost, And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. “A jolly place,” said he, “in times of old!

But something ails it now; the spot is curst.

You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood— Some say that they are beeches, others elms— These were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood, The finest palace of a hundred realms!

The Arbour does its own condition tell; You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream,

But as to the great Lodge! you might as well Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

There’s neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, Will wet his lips within that Cup of Stone; And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

“Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; Small difference lies between thy creed and mine: This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell; His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

The Being, that is in the clouds and air, That is in the green leaves among the groves, Maintains a deep and reverential care For them the quiet creatures whom he loves.

The Pleasure-house is dust:—behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day, These monuments shall all be overgrown.

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

”

Aye, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, ’Tis one of those who needs must leave the path Of 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 bring Tears down his cheeks, or solitary smiles Into his face, until the setting sun Write Fool upon his forehead.

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates To chronicle the time, we all have here A pair of diaries, one serving, Sir, For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side—

Yours was a stranger’s judgment: for Historians, Commend me to these valleys.

Yet your Church-yard Seems, 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:

and, on a winter’s 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 high-way of the world.

Now there’s a grave⁠—your foot is half upon it, It looks just like the rest; and yet that Man Died broken-hearted.

’Tis a common case. We’ll take another: who is he that lies Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves? It touches on that piece of native rock Left in the church-yard wall.

and once I said, As I remember, looking round these rocks And hills on which we all of us were born, That God who made the great book of the world Would bless such piety—

Never did worthier lads break English bread!

The finest Sunday that the Autumn saw, With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, Could never keep these boys away from church, Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. Leonard and James!

Leonard and James! I warrant, every corner Among these rocks, and every hollow place Where foot could come, to one or both of them Was 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, aye and speak too, as well As many of their betters—and for Leonard!

By Ellen’s side the Bruce is laid; And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic Jacet!

Strange fits of passion I have known: And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover’s ear alone, What once to me befell.

When she I loved, was strong and gay And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath the evening Moon.

My Horse moved on; hoof after hoof He raised, and never stopped: When down behind the cottage roof At once the Planet dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover’s head⁠—

“O mercy!” to myself I cried, “If Lucy should be dead!”

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover’s head— “O mercy!” to myself I cried, “If Lucy should be dead!”

She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her Grave, and oh! The difference to me.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her Grave, and oh! The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears:

She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees, Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees!

“Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,” Exclaimed a thundering Voice, “Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!”

A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to 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.

“From me this friendly warning take”— The Broom began to doze, And thus to keep herself awake Did gently interpose: “My thanks for your discourse are due; That it is true, and more than true, I know, and I have known it long;

Frail is the bond, by which we hold Our being, be we young or old, Wise, foolish, weak or strong.

“Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all. For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant Heritage;

“

Disasters, do the best we can, Will reach both great and small; And he is oft the wisest man, Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant Heritage; My Father many a happy year Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age.

“

The Butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my Blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew, Beneath my shade the mother Ewe Lies with her infant Lamb; I see The love they to each other make, And the sweet joy, which they partake, It is a joy to me.”

In the high Northern Latitudes, as the same writer informs us, when the Northern Lights vary their position in the air, they make a rustling and a crackling noise. This circumstance is alluded to in the first stanza of the following poem.

Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the northern gleams; The stars they were among my dreams; In sleep did I behold the skies, I saw the crackling flashes drive; And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive.

The stars they were among my dreams; In sleep did I behold the skies, I saw the crackling flashes drive; And yet they are upon my eyes, And yet I am alive. Before I see another day, Oh let my body die away!

My fire is dead: it knew no pain; Yet it is dead, and I remain.

All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire.

All stiff with ice the ashes lie; And they are dead, and I will die. When I was well, I wished to live, For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire; But they to me no joy can give, No pleasure now, and no desire.

Then here contented will I lie! Alone I cannot fear to die.

Alas! you might have dragged me on Another day, a single one! Too soon despair o’er me prevailed; Too soon my heartless spirit failed; When you were gone my limbs were stronger;

I feel I must have died with thee. Oh wind that o’er my head art flying The way my Friends their course did bend, I should not feel the pain of dying, Could I with thee a message send!

Too soon, my Friends, you went away; For I had many things to say.

I’ll follow you across the snow; You travel heavily and slow: In spite of all my weary pain, I’ll look upon your tents again. —My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood;

I’ll follow you across the snow; You travel heavily and slow: In spite of all my weary pain, I’ll look upon your tents again. —My fire is dead, and snowy white The water which beside it stood;

The wolf has come to me to-night, And he has stolen away my food.

For ever left alone am I, Then wherefore should I fear to die?

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the Wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide Moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the Town.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

’Tis said, that some have died for love:

And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold North’s unhallowed ground, Because the wretched Man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn’s side:

“Oh move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look⁠—the sky is empty space;

I know not what I trace; But, when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be supprest? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

“Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained;

back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough Headlong yon waterfall must come, Oh let it then be dumb!—

Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

“Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, (Even like the rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale.

shed thy flowers, And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.”

The Man who makes this feverish complaint Is one of giant stature, who could dance Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.

Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know Such happiness as I have known today.

Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine To store up kindred hours for me, thy face Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know Such happiness as I have known today.

The valley rings with mirth and joy; Among the hills the Echoes play A never never ending song To welcome in the May.

The Magpie chatters with delight; The mountain Raven’s youngling Brood Have left the Mother and the Nest; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food; Or through the glittering Vapors dart In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two Boys are sitting in the sun;

It seems they have no work to do, Or that their work is done.

On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas Hymn; Or with that plant which in our dale We call Stag-horn, or Fox’s Tail, Their rusty Hats they trim: And thus, as happy as the Day, Those Shepherds wear the time away.

’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy, that thou know’st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sick, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.—St.

She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.

If Thou in the dear love of some one Friend Hast been so happy, that thou know’st what thoughts Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love Make the heart sick, then wilt thou reverence This quiet spot.

—St. Herbert hither came, And here, for many seasons, from the world Removed, and the affections of the world, He dwelt in solitude.—But he had left A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man loved As his own soul.

for he, the poor Vitruvius of our village, had no help From the great City; never on the leaves Of red Morocco folio saw displayed The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.

It is a homely Pile, yet to these walls The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropped lamb finds shelter from the wind.

And hither does one Poet sometimes row His Pinnace, a small vagrant Barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and withered fern, (A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains,) and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at …

Look but at the gardener’s pride— How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality.

Look but at the gardener’s pride— How he glories, when he sees Roses, Lilies, side by side, Violets in families! By the heart of Man, his tears, By his hopes and by his fears, Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear, Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there and Susan here, Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain Seven widowed years without my Jane, O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Lov’d and Lover!

And, should I live through sun and rain Seven widowed years without my Jane,

O Sexton, do not then remove her, Let one grave hold the Lov’d and Lover!

“I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed His children up to waste and pillage. I wish the press-gang or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village!”

He stooped and took the penny up: And when the Cripple nearer drew,

Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown, What a man finds is all his own, And so, my friend, good day to you.”

And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys Will all be trained to waste and pillage; And wished the press-gang, or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village!

And she had made a Pipe of straw, And from that oaten Pipe could draw All sounds of winds and floods; Had built a Bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An Infant of the woods.

Beneath her Father’s roof, alone She seemed to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight:

Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay, She passed her time; and in this way Grew up to Woman’s height.

Among the Indians he had fought; And with him many tales he brought Of pleasure and of fear;

Such tales as, told to any Maid By such a Youth, in the green shade, Were perilous to hear.

He told of Girls, a happy rout! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, Their pleasant Indian Town To gather strawberries all day long, Returning with a choral song When day-light is gone down.

Of march and ambush, siege and fight, Then did he tell; and with delight The heart of Ruth would ache; Wild histories they were, and dear:

But ’twas a thing of heaven to hear When of himself he spake!

Sometimes most earnestly he said; “O Ruth! I have been worse than dead: False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, Encompassed me on every side When I, in confidence and pride, Had crossed the Atlantic Main.

The Youth of green savannahs spake,

And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds.

And then he said “How sweet it were A fisher or a hunter there, A gardener in the shade, Still wandering with an easy mind To build a household fire, and find A home in every glade!

But ill he lived, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Nor better life was known;

Deliberately and undeceived Those wild men’s vices he received, And gave them back his own.

His genius and his moral frame Were thus impaired, and he became The slave of low desires: A Man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul Unworthily admires.

And yet he with no feigned delight Had wooed the maiden, day and night Had loved her, night and morn:

What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature played? So kind and so forlorn!

But now the pleasant dream was gone; No hope, no wish remained, not one, They stirred him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wished to live As lawless as before.

Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free; And, coming to the banks of Tone, There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her.

A Barn her winter bed supplies; But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none.

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 sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up— He felt with spirit so profound.

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of 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 be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain to thee?

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.

“No fountain from its rocky cave E’er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.

“There came from me a sigh of pain Which 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 his bough Of wilding in his hand.

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 his bough Of wilding in his hand.

We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate 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.

We talked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate 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! let us try to match This water’s pleasant tune With some old Border-song, or Catch That suits a summer’s noon.

“If there is one who need bemoan His 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 none Am I enough beloved.”

“Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains,

and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turned away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.

—

and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turned away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.—

Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch⁠—for there is a Spirit in the woods.

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This Child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A Lady of my own.

The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.

“Drink, pretty Creature, drink,” she said in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own.

’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare! I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. Now with her empty Can the Maiden turned away; But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;

My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

“It will not, will not rest!—poor Creature, can it be That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

“Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;

The little Brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey.

“Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe—our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again!”

—As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;

And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

Again, and once again did I repeat the song; “Nay” said I, “more than half to the Damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own.”

I must apprise the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

A fig for your languages, German and Norse!

Let me have the song of the Kettle; And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

… in the woody lane, Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance The old Man does not change his course, the Boy Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side, And passes gently by, without a curse Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man, His age has no companion.

On the ground His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along, They move along the ground;

ye proud, Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not A burthen of the earth.

’Tis Nature’s law That none, the meanest of created things, Of forms created the most vile and brute, The dullest or most noxious, should exist Divorced from good⁠—a spirit and pulse of good, A life and soul to every mode of being Inseparably linked.

While thus he creeps From door to door, the Villagers in him Behold a record which together binds Past deeds and offices of charity, Else unremembered, and so keeps alive The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, Make …

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 here In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, And these inevitable charities, Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?

No⁠—Man is dear to Man; the poorest poor Long for some moments in a weary life When they can know and feel that they have been Themselves the fathers and the dealers out Of some small blessings, have been kind to such As needed kindness, for this single cause, That we have all of us one human heart.

—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known;

And let him, where and when he will, sit down Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank Of high-way side, and with the little birds Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,

As in the eye of Nature he has lived, So in the eye of Nature let him die.

There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor’s bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb;

And what did these School-boys?—The very next day They went and they built up another.

Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business trained and bred? —First learn to love one living man; Then mayst thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falsehood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a man 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 botanize Upon his mother’s grave?

Wrappt closely in thy sensual fleece O turn aside, and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy pin-point of a 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 cling Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small; A reasoning, self-sufficient 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 watch Near this unprofitable dust.

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small; A reasoning, self-sufficient 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 watch Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

But who is He, with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.

He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart, —The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

The outward shows of sky and earth, Of hill and valley, he has viewed; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart, —The harvest of a quiet eye That 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 enjoy The things which others understand.

And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut;

And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e’er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the Lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his best; But in this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build his nest. No Beast, no Bird hath here his home;

But in this lonesome nook the Bird Did never build his nest. No Beast, no Bird hath here his home; The Bees borne on the breezy air Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells, Nor ever linger there.

The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.

A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; Nor piping Shepherd shall he be, Nor Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven’s wing;

And on a summit, distant a short space, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain Cottage might be seen. I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,

“Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma, I will dedicate to thee.”

—Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.

The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heavens, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. ’Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my name.

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interpos’d Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

I will not say What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how The happy idleness of that sweet morn, With all its lovely images, was changed To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves What need there is to be reserved in speech, And temper all our thoughts with charity.

—Therefore, unwilling to forget that day, My Friend, Myself, and She who then received The same admonishment, have called the place By a memorial name, uncouth indeed As e’er by Mariner was given to Bay Or Foreland on a new-discovered coast, And Point Rash-Judgement is …

How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening twilight’s summer hues, While, facing thus the crimson west, The Boat her silent course pursues!

And see how dark the backward stream! A little moment past, so smiling!

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other Loiterer beguiling. Such views the youthful Bard allure; But, heedless of the following gloom, He deems their colours shall endure Till peace go with him to the tomb.

—And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow! Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come tomorrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide, O Thames! that other Bards may see As lovely visions by thy side As now, fair River! come to me.

Oh glide, fair Stream! for ever so, Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, Till all our minds for ever flow As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Now let us, as we float along, For him suspend the dashing oar; And pray that never child of Song May know that Poet’s sorrows more.

How calm! how still! the only sound, The dripping of the oar suspended!

—The evening darkness gathers round By virtue’s holiest Powers attended.

The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care; For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves, Oh, what would they be to my tale of two Thieves?

Little Dan is unbreeched, he is three birth-days old; His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a-stealing together.

With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of peats at an old Woman’s door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide; And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.

… where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing.

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease, That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these, Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep.

Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep.

Though almost with eagle pinion O’er the rocks the Chamois roam, Yet he has some small dominion Which, no doubt, he calls his home.

If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less he loves his haven On the bosom of the cliff.

Though the Sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave; Yet he slumbers without motion On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble! Never nearer to the goal, Night and day I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul.

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face. But, courage!

… Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed) On man, the heart of man, and human life.

Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts, And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name, An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength:

and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, He heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills; The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say,

“The winds are now devising work for me!”

And, truly, at all times the storm, that drives The Traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him and left him on the heights.

yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a Stranger’s hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave.

Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself Has scarcely been more diligent than I, And I have lived to be a fool at last To my own family.

An evil Man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow.

An evil Man That was, and made an evil choice, if he Were false to us; and if he were not false, There are ten thousand to whom loss like this Had been no sorrow. I forgive him—but

’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

When I began, my purpose was to speak Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;

And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door,

“Thou must not go: We have no other child but thee to lose, None to remember⁠—do not go away, For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”

The Lad made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love.

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side First uttering, without words, a natural tune; When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy Mother’s breast.

Month followed month, And in the open fields my life was passed And in the mountains, else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees. But we were playmates, Luke:

Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their Forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.

But ’tis a long time to look back, my Son, And see so little gain from sixty years.

These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more Than half of my inheritance was mine. I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free.

Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love;

’Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would break the heart:—Old Michael found it so. I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the Old Man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news.