THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE

      'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
      The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
      And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
      That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

      He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
      His staff is a sceptre--his grey hairs a crown;
      And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak
      Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.

      'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,--'mid the joy
      Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy,             10
      That countenance there fashioned, which, spite of a stain
      That his life hath received, to the last will remain.

      A Farmer he was; and his house far and near
      Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer:
      How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale
      Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale!

      Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,
      His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing:
      And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,
      All caught the infection--as generous as he.                    20

      Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,--
      The fields better suited the ease of his soul:
      He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
      The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

      For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor,
      Familiar with him, made an inn of his door:
      He gave them the best that he had; or, to say
      What less may mislead you, they took it away.

      Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm:
      The Genius of plenty preserved him from harm:                   30
      At length, what to most is a season of sorrow,
      His means are run out,--he must beg, or must borrow.

      To the neighbours he went,--all were free with their money;
      For his hive had so long been replenished with honey,
      That they dreamt not of dearth;--He continued his rounds,
      Knocked here--and knocked there, pounds still adding to pounds.

      He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf,
      And something, it might be, reserved for himself:
      Then (what is too true) without hinting a word,
      Turned his back on the country--and off like a bird.            40

      You lift up your eyes!--but I guess that you frame
      A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame;
      In him it was scarcely a business of art,
      For this he did all in the 'ease' of his heart.

      To London--a sad emigration I ween--
      With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green;
      And there, with small wealth but his legs and his hands,
      As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands.

      All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume,--
      Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom;            50
      But nature is gracious, necessity kind,
      And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind,

      He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout;
      Twice as fast as before does his blood run about;
      You would say that each hair of his beard was alive,
      And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive.

      For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes
      About work that he knows, in a track that he knows;
      But often his mind is compelled to demur,
      And you guess that the more then his body must stir.            60

      In the throng of the town like a stranger is he,
      Like one whose own country's far over the sea;
      And Nature, while through the great city he hies,
      Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.

      This gives him the fancy of one that is young,
      More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue;
      Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs,
      And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes.

      What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats?
      Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets;           70
      With a look of such earnestness often will stand,
      You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.

      Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours
      Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers,
      Old Adam will smile at the pains that have made
      Poor winter look fine in such strange masquerade.

      'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw,
      Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw;
      With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem,
      And his hearing is touched with the sounds of a dream.          80

      Up the Haymarket hill he oft whistles his way,
      Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay;
      He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown,
      And is happy as if the rich freight were his own.

      But chiefly to Smithfield he loves to repair,--
      If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there.
      The breath of the cows you may see him inhale,
      And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale.

      Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid,
      May one blade of grass spring up over thy head;                 90
      And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
      Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.
                                                              1803.

TO THE CUCKOO

          O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
          I hear thee and rejoice.
          O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
          Or but a wandering Voice?

          While I am lying on the grass
          Thy twofold shout I hear,
          From hill to hill it seems to pass,
          At once far off, and near.

          Though babbling only to the Vale,
          Of sunshine and of flowers,                                 10
          Thou bringest unto me a tale
          Of visionary hours.

          Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
          Even yet thou art to me
          No bird, but an invisible thing,
          A voice, a mystery;

          The same whom in my school-boy days
          I listened to; that Cry
          Which made me look a thousand ways
          In bush, and tree, and sky.                                 20

          To seek thee did I often rove
          Through woods and on the green;
          And thou wert still a hope, a love;
          Still longed for, never seen.

          And I can listen to thee yet;
          Can lie upon the plain
          And listen, till I do beget
          That golden time again.

          O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
          Again appears to be                                         30
          An unsubstantial, faery place;
          That is fit home for Thee!
                                                              1804.

"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT"

          She was a Phantom of delight
          When first she gleamed 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 cheerful 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 between life and death;
          The reason firm, the temperate will,
          Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
          A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
          To warn, to comfort, and command;
          And yet a Spirit still, and bright
          With something of angelic light.                            30
                                                              1804.

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"

          I wandered lonely as a cloud
          That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
          When all at once I saw a crowd,
          A host, of golden daffodils;
          Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
          Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

          Continuous as the stars that shine
          And twinkle on the milky way,
          They stretched in never-ending line
          Along the margin of a bay:                                  10
          Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
          Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

          The waves beside them danced; but they
          Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
          A poet could not but be gay,
          In such a jocund company:
          I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
          What wealth the show to me had brought:

          For oft, when on my couch I lie
          In vacant or in pensive mood,                               20
          They flash upon that inward eye
          Which is the bliss of solitude;
          And then my heart with pleasure fills,
          And dances with the daffodils.
                                                              1804.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET ----

                                   I

          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?

                                   II

          Seven years, alas! to have received
          No tidings of an only child;
          To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
          And been for evermore beguiled;
          Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
          I catch at them, and then I miss;
          Was ever darkness like to this?

                                  III

          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;
          And never blush was on my face.

                                   IV

          Ah! little doth the young one dream,
          When full of play and childish cares,
          What power is in 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.

                                   V

          Neglect me! no, I suffered long
          From that ill thought; and, being blind,
          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.

                                   VI

          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;
          And worldly grandeur I despise,
          And fortune with her gifts and lies.

                                  VII

          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.

                                  VIII

          Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
          Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
          Or thou upon a desert thrown
          Inheritest the lion's den;
          Or hast been summoned to the deep,
          Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
          An incommunicable sleep.

                                   IX

          I look for ghosts; but none will force
          Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
          That there was ever intercourse
          Between the living and the dead;
          For, surely, then I should have sight
          Of him I wait for day and night,
          With love and longings infinite.

                                   X

          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.

                                   XI

          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!
                                                              1804.


CONTENTS      BIBLIOGRAPHIC R

THE FORSAKEN

          THE peace which others seek they find;
          The heaviest storms not longest last;
          Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind
          An amnesty for what is past;
          When will my sentence be reversed?
          I only pray to know the worst;
          And wish as if my heart would burst.

          O weary struggle! silent years
          Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
          And yet they leave it short, and fears                      10
          And hopes are strong and will prevail.
          My calmest faith escapes not pain;
          And, feeling that the hope is vain,
          I think that he will come again.
                                                              1804.

REPENTANCE
A PASTORAL BALLAD

      THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
      Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,
      Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold,
      Could we but have been as contented as they.

      When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I,
      "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;
      But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,--we'll die
      Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"

      There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
      Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;                       10
      We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours;
      And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

      But now we are strangers, go early or late;
      And often, like one overburthened with sin,
      With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
      I look at the fields, but I cannot go in!

      When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,
      Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,
      A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,
      "What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!"             20

      With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
      Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
      But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
      We slighted them all,--and our birth-right was lost.

      Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son
      Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain!
      Think of evening's repose when our labour was done,
      The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain!

      And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep,
      How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood,               30
      Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep
      That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my blood!

      Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail;
      And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh,
      That follows the thought--We've no land in the vale,
      Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!
                                                              1804.

THE SEVEN SISTERS;
OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

                                   I

          SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
          All children of one mother:
          You 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,
          The solitude of Binnorie!

                                   II

          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.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

                                  III

          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,
          Methinks you take small heed!
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

                                   IV

          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;
          For us your yellow ringlets comb,
          For us be fair and kind!"
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

                                   V

          Some close behind, some side to 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;
          They ran, and with a desperate leap
          Together plunged into the deep,
          Nor ever more were seen.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.

                                   VI

          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,
          Have risen from out the deep:
          The fishers say, those sisters fair,
          By faeries all are buried there,
          And there together sleep.
          Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
          The solitude of Binnorie.
                                                              1804.

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16

          ----Hast thou then survived--
          Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
          Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
          The most forlorn--one life of that bright star,
          The second glory of the Heavens?--Thou hast,
          Already hast survived that great decay,
          That transformation through the wide earth felt,
          And by all nations. In that Being's sight
          From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
          A thousand years are but as yesterday;                      10
          And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
          Not less capacious than a thousand years.
          But what is time? What outward glory? neither
          A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
          Through "heaven's eternal year."--Yet hail to Thee,
          Frail, feeble Monthling!--by that name, methinks,
          Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
          Not idly.--Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
          Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
          And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,                        20
          Or to the churlish elements exposed
          On the blank plains,--the coldness of the night,
          Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
          Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
          Would, with imperious admonition, then
          Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
          Thine infant history, on the minds of those
          Who might have wandered with thee.--Mother's love,
          Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
          Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed,                 30
          Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
          Doth all too often harshly execute
          For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
          Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
          The affections, to exalt them or refine;
          And the maternal sympathy itself,
          Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
          Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
          Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!
          Even now--to solemnise thy helpless state,                  40
          And to enliven in the mind's regard
          Thy passive beauty--parallels have risen,
          Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
          Within the region of a father's thoughts,
          Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky.
          And first;--thy sinless progress, through a world
          By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,
          Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,
          Moving untouched in silver purity,
          And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom.               50
          Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:
          But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn
          With brightness! leaving her to post along,
          And range about, disquieted in change,
          And still impatient of the shape she wears.
          Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe
          That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
          Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
          Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st
          In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon                   60
          Hath this conception, grateful to behold,
          Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er
          By breathing mist; and thine appears to be
          A mournful labour, while to her is given
          Hope, and a renovation without end.
          --That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
          Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
          To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen
          Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports
          The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers                  70
          Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called
          Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore
          This untried world, and to prepare thy way
          Through a strait passage intricate and dim?
          Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs,
          Which, when the appointed season hath arrived,
          Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt;
          And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.
                                                              1804.

THE KITTEN AND 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,
          Withered 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 conveyed
          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 its 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 conjurer;                                    30
          Quick as he in feats of art,
          Far beyond in joy of heart.
          Were her antics played 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 nor 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
          Travelled 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--head pointing towards the ground--
          Fluttered, perched, 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 its prime,
          They are sobered 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 glitter 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 Dora'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.
          --Pleased by any random toy;
          By a kitten's busy joy,
          Or an infant's laughing eye
          Sharing in the ecstasy;                                    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.
                                                              1804.