Goody Blake And Harry Gill
A True Story

          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 grey, 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;                          10
          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;
          Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
          His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

          Young Harry was a lusty drover,
          And who so stout of limb as he?
          His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
          His voice was like the voice of three.                      20
          Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
          Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
          And any man who passed her door
          Might see how poor a hut she had.

          All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
          And then her three hours' work at night,
          Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
          It would not pay for candle-light.
          Remote from sheltered village-green,
          On a hill's northern side she dwelt,                        30
          Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
          And hoary dews are slow to melt.

          By the same fire to boil their pottage,
          Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
          Will often live in one small cottage;
          But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
          'Twas well enough when summer came,
          The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
          Then at her door the 'canty' Dame
          Would sit, as any linnet, gay.                              40

          But when the ice our streams did fetter,
          Oh then how her old bones would shake!
          You would have said, if you had met her,
          'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
          Her evenings then were dull and dead:
          Sad case it was, as you may think,
          For very cold to go to bed;
          And then for cold not sleep a wink.

          O joy for her! whene'er in winter
          The winds at night had made a rout;                         50
          And scattered many a lusty splinter
          And many a rotten bough about.
          Yet never had she, well or sick,
          As every man who knew her says,
          A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
          Enough to warm her for three days.

          Now, when the frost was past enduring,
          And made her poor old bones to ache,
          Could any thing be more alluring
          Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?                           60
          And, now and then, it must be said,
          When her old bones were cold and chill,
          She left her fire, or left her bed,
          To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

          Now Harry he had long suspected
          This trespass of old Goody Blake;
          And vowed that she should be detected--
          That he on her would vengeance take.
          And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
          And to the fields his road would take;                      70
          And there, at night, in frost and snow,
          He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

          And once, behind a rick of barley,
          Thus looking out did Harry stand:
          The moon was full and shining clearly,
          And crisp with frost the stubble land.
          --He hears a noise--he's all awake--
          Again?--on tip-toe down the hill
          He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
          She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!                           80

          Right glad was he when he beheld her:
          Stick after stick did Goody pull:
          He stood behind a bush of elder,
          Till she had filled her apron full.
          When with her load she turned about,
          The by-way back again to take;
          He started forward, with a shout,
          And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

          And fiercely by the arm he took her,
          And by the arm he held her fast,                            90
          And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
          And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"--
          Then Goody, who had nothing said,
          Her bundle from her lap let fall;
          And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
          To God that is the judge of all.

          She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
          While Harry held her by the arm--
          "God! who art never out of hearing,
          O may he never more be warm!"                              100
          The cold, cold moon above her head,
          Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
          Young Harry heard what she had said:
          And icy cold he turned away.

          He went complaining all the morrow
          That he was cold and very chill:
          His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
          Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
          That day he wore a riding-coat,
          But not a whit the warmer he:                              110
          Another was on Thursday brought,
          And ere the Sabbath he had three.

          'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
          And blankets were about him pinned;
          Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
          Like a loose casement in the wind.
          And Harry's flesh it fell away;
          And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
          That, live as long as live he may,
          He never will be warm again.                               120

          No word to any man he utters,
          A-bed or up, to young or old;
          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!
                                                              1798.

Her Eyes Are Wild

                                   I

          HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
          The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
          Her eyebrows 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 greenwood stone,
          She talked and sung the woods among,
          And it was in the English tongue.

                                   II

          "Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,
          But nay, my heart is far too glad;
          And I am happy when I sing
          Full many a sad and doleful thing:
          Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
          I pray thee have no fear of me;
          But safe as in a cradle, here,
          My lovely baby! thou shalt be:
          To thee I know too much I owe;
          I cannot work thee any woe.

                                  III

          "A fire was once within my brain;
          And in my head a dull, dull pain;
          And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
          Hung at my breast, and pulled at me;
          But then there came a sight of joy;
          It came at once to do me good;
          I waked, and saw my little boy,
          My little boy of flesh and blood;
          Oh joy for me that sight to see!
          For he was here, and only he.

                                   IV

          "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.

                                   V

          "Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
          Thou art thy mother's only joy;
          And do not dread the waves below,
          When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
          The high crag cannot work me harm,
          Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
          The babe I carry on my arm,
          He saves for me my precious soul;
          Then happy lie; for blest am I;
          Without me my sweet babe would die.

                                   VI

          "Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
          Bold as a lion will I be;
          And I will always be thy guide,
          Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
          I'll build an Indian bower; I know
          The leaves that make the softest bed:
          And, if from me thou wilt not go,
          But still be true till I am dead,
          My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
          As merry as the birds in spring.

                                  VII

          "Thy father cares not for my breast,
          'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
          'Tis all thine own!--and, if its hue
          Be changed, that was so fair to view,
          'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
          My beauty, little child, is flown,
          But thou wilt live with me in love,
          And what if my poor cheek be brown?
          'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
          How pale and wan it else would be.

                                  VIII

          "Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
          I am thy father's wedded wife;
          And underneath the spreading tree
          We two will live in honesty.
          If his sweet boy he could forsake,
          With me he never would have stayed:
          From him no harm my babe can take;
          But he, poor man! is wretched made;
          And every day we two will pray
          For him that's gone and far away.

                                   IX

          "I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
          I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
          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.

                                   X

          "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:
          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."
                                                              1798.

Simon Lee
The Old Huntsman;
With An Incident In Which He Was Concerned

          IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,
          Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
          An old Man dwells, a little man,--
          'Tis said he once was tall.
          Full five-and-thirty years he lived
          A running huntsman merry;
          And still the centre of his cheek
          Is red as a ripe cherry.

          No man like him the horn could sound,
          And hill and valley rang with glee                          10
          When Echo bandied, round and round,
          The halloo of Simon Lee.
          In those proud days, he little cared
          For husbandry or tillage;
          To blither tasks did Simon rouse
          The sleepers of the village.

          He all the country could outrun,
          Could leave both man and horse behind;
          And often, ere the chase was done,
          He reeled, and was stone-blind.                             20
          And still there's something in the world
          At which his heart rejoices;
          For when the chiming hounds are out,
          He dearly loves their voices!

          But, oh the heavy change!--bereft
          Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!
          Old Simon to the world is left
          In liveried poverty.
          His Master's dead,--and no one now
          Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;                                 30
          Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
          He is the sole survivor.

          And he is lean and he is sick;
          His body, dwindled and awry,
          Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
          His legs are thin and dry.
          One prop he has, and only one,
          His wife, an aged woman,
          Lives with him, near the waterfall,
          Upon the village Common.                                    40

          Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
          Not twenty paces from the door,
          A scrap of land they have, but they
          Are poorest of the poor.
          This scrap of land he from the heath
          Enclosed when he was stronger;
          But what to them avails the land
          Which he can till no longer?

          Oft, working by her Husband's side,
          Ruth does what Simon cannot do;                             50
          For she, with scanty cause for pride,
          Is stouter of the two.
          And, though you with your utmost skill
          From labour could not wean them,
          'Tis little, very little--all
          That they can do between them.

          Few months of life has he in store
          As he to you will tell,
          For still, the more he works, the more
          Do his weak ankles swell.                                   60
          My gentle Reader, I perceive
          How patiently you've waited,
          And now I fear 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,
          And you must kindly take it:                                70
          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
          To unearth the root of an old tree,
          A stump of rotten wood.
          The mattock tottered in his hand;
          So vain was his endeavour,
          That at the root of the old tree
          He might have worked for ever.                              80

          "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
          Give me your tool," to him I said;
          And at the word right gladly he
          Received my proffered aid.
          I struck, and with a single blow
          The tangled root I severed,
          At which the poor old Man so long
          And vainly had endeavoured.

          The tears into his eyes were brought,
          And thanks and praises seemed to run                        90
          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
          Hath oftener left me mourning.
                                                               1798.

Lines Written In Early Spring

          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 grieved my heart to think
          What man has made of man.

          Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
          The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         10
          And 'tis my faith that every flower
          Enjoys the air it breathes.

          The birds around me hopped and played,
          Their thoughts I cannot measure:--
          But the least motion which they made
          It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

          The budding twigs spread out their fan,
          To catch the breezy air;
          And I must think, do all I can,
          That there was pleasure there.                              20

          If this belief from heaven be sent,
          If such be Nature's holy plan,
          Have I not reason to lament
          What man has made of man?
                                                              1798.

To My Sister

          IT is the first mild day of March:
          Each minute sweeter than before
          The redbreast sings from the tall larch
          That stands beside our door.

          There is a blessing in the air,
          Which seems a sense of joy to yield
          To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
          And grass in the green field.

          My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
          Now that our morning meal is done,                          10
          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.

          No joyless forms shall regulate
          Our living calendar:
          We from to-day, my Friend, will date
          The opening of the year.                                    20

          Love, now a 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 years of toiling reason:
          Our minds shall drink at every pore
          The spirit of the season.

          Some silent laws our hearts will make,
          Which they shall long obey:                                 30
          We for the year to come may take
          Our temper from to-day.

          And from the blessed power that rolls
          About, below, above,
          We'll frame the measure of our souls:
          They shall be tuned to love.

          Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
          With speed put on your woodland dress;
          And bring no book: for this one day
          We'll give to idleness.                                     40
                                                              1798.

"A Whirl-Blast From Behind The Hill"

          A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill
          Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;
          Then--all at once the air was still,
          And showers of hailstones pattered round.
          Where leafless oaks towered high above,
          I sat within an undergrove
          Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
          A fairer bower was never seen.
          From year to year the spacious floor
          With withered leaves is covered o'er,                       10
          And all the year the bower is green.
          But see! where'er the hailstones drop
          The withered leaves all skip and hop;
          There's not a breeze--no breath of air--
          Yet here, and there, and everywhere
          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,                          20
          And all those leaves, in festive glee,
          Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
                                                              1799.

Expostulation And Reply

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

          "Where are your books?--that light bequeathed
          To Beings else forlorn and blind!
          Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
          From dead men to their kind.

          "You look round on your Mother Earth,
          As if she for no purpose bore you;                          10
          As if you were her first-born birth,
          And none had lived before you!"

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

          "The eye--it cannot choose but see;
          We cannot bid the ear be still;
          Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
          Against or with our will.                                   20

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

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

          "--Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
          Conversing as I may,                                        30
          I sit upon this old grey stone,
          And dream my time away,"
                                                              1798.

The Tables Turned
An Evening Scene On The Same Subject

          UP! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
          Or surely you'll grow double:
          Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
          Why all this toil and trouble?

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

          Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
          Come, hear the woodland linnet,                             10
          How sweet his music! on my life,
          There's more of wisdom in it.

          And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
          He, too, 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.                             20

          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
          Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
          We murder to dissect.

          Enough of Science and of Art;
          Close up those barren leaves;                               30
          Come forth, and bring with you a heart
          That watches and receives.
                                                              1798.

The Complaint
Of A Forsaken Indian Woman

                                   I

          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 rustling conflict through the skies,
          I heard, I saw the 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!

                                   II

          My fire is dead: it knew no pain;
          Yet is it 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.
          Then here contented will I lie!
          Alone, I cannot fear to die.

                                  III

          Alas! ye might have dragged me on
          Another day, a single one!
          Too soon I yielded to despair;
          Why did ye listen to my prayer?
          When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;
          And oh, how grievously I rue,
          That, afterwards, a little longer,
          My friends, I did not follow you!
          For strong and without pain I lay,
          Dear friends, when ye were gone away.

                                   IV

          My Child! they gave thee to another,
          A woman who was not thy mother.
          When from my arms my Babe they took,
          On me how strangely did he look!
          Through his whole body something ran,
          A most strange working did I see;
          --As if he strove to be a man,
          That he might pull the sledge for me:
          And then he stretched his arms, how wild!
          Oh mercy! like a helpless child.

                                   V

          My little joy! my little pride!
          In two days more I must have died.
          Then do not weep and grieve for me;
          I feel I must have died with thee.
          O 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, ye went away;
          For I had many things to say.

                                   VI

          I'll follow you across the snow;
          Ye 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?

                                  VII

          Young as I am, my course is run,
          I shall not see another sun;
          I cannot lift my limbs to know
          If they have any life or no.
          My poor forsaken Child, if I
          For once could have thee close to me,
          With happy heart I then would die,
          And my last thought would happy be;
          But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
          Nor shall I see another day.
                                                              1798.

The Last Of The Flock

                                   I

          IN distant countries have I 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 highway, I met;
          Along the broad highway he came,
          His cheeks with tears were wet:
          Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
          And in his arms a Lamb he had.

                                   II

          He saw me, and he turned aside,
          As if he wished himself to hide:
          And with his coat did then essay
          To wipe those briny tears away.
          I followed him, and said, "My friend,
          What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
          --"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
          He makes my tears to flow.
          To-day I fetched him from the rock;
          He is the last of all my flock,

                                   III

          "When I was young, a single man,
          And after youthful follies ran,
          Though little given to care and thought,
          Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
          And other sheep from her I raised,
          As healthy sheep as you might see;
          And then I married, and was rich
          As I could wish to be;
          Of sheep I numbered a full score,
          And every year increased my store.

                                   IV

          "Year after year my stock it grew;
          And from this one, this single ewe,
          Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
          As fine a flock as ever grazed!
          Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
          They throve, and we at home did thrive:
          --This lusty Lamb of all my store
          Is all that is alive;
          And now I care not if we die,
          And perish all of poverty.

                                   V

          "Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;
          Hard labour in a time of need!
          My pride was tamed, and in our grief
          I of the Parish asked relief.
          They said, I was a wealthy man;
          My sheep upon the uplands fed,
          And it was fit that thence I took
          Whereof to buy us bread.
          'Do this: how can we give to you,'
          They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

                                   VI

          "I sold a sheep, as they had said,
          And bought my little children bread,
          And they were healthy with their food
          For me--it never did me good.
          A woeful time it was for me,
          To see the end of all my gains,
          The pretty flock which I had reared
          With all my care and pains,
          To see it melt like snow away--
          For me it was a woeful day.

                                 VII

          "Another still! and still another!
          A little lamb, and then its mother!
          It was a vein that never stopped--
          Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.
          'Till thirty were not left alive
          They dwindled, dwindled, one by one
          And I may say, that many a time
          I wished they all were gone--
          Reckless of what might come at last
          Were but the bitter struggle past.

                                  VIII

          "To wicked deeds I was inclined,
          And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
          And every man I chanced to see,
          I thought he knew some ill of me:
          No peace, no comfort could I find,
          No ease, within doors or without;
          And, crazily and wearily
          I went my work about;
          And oft was moved to flee from home,
          And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

                                   IX

          "Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
          As dear as my own children be;
          For daily with my growing store
          I loved my children more and more.
          Alas! it was an evil time;
          God cursed me in my sore distress;
          I prayed, yet every day I thought
          I loved my children less;
          And every week, and every day,
          My flock it seemed to melt away.

                                   X

          "They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
          From ten to five, from five to three,
          A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;--
          And then at last from three to two;
          And, of my fifty, yesterday
          I had but only one:
          And here it lies upon my arm,
          Alas! and I have none;--
          To-day I fetched it from the rock;
          It is the last of all my flock."
                                                              1798.