The Idiot Boy

          'TIS eight o'clock,--a clear March night,
          The moon is up,--the sky is blue,
          The owlet, in the moonlight air,
          Shouts from nobody knows where;
          He lengthens out his lonely shout,
          Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

          --Why bustle thus about your door,
          What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
          Why are you in this mighty fret?
          And why on horseback have you set                           10
          Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?

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

          But Betty's bent on her intent;
          For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
          Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
          Is sick, and makes a piteous moan                           20
          As if her very life would fail.

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

          And Betty's husband's at the wood,
          Where by the week he doth abide,
          A woodman in the distant vale;
          There's none to help poor Susan Gale;                       30
          What must be done? what will betide?

          And Betty from the lane has fetched
          Her Pony, that is mild and good;
          Whether he be in joy or pain,
          Feeding at will along the lane,
          Or bringing faggots from the wood.

          And he is all in travelling trim,--
          And, by the moonlight, Betty Foy
          Has on the well-girt saddle set
          (The like was never heard of yet)                           40
          Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

          And he must post without delay
          Across the bridge and through the dale,
          And by the church, and o'er the down,
          To bring a Doctor from the town,
          Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

          There is no need of boot or spur,
          There is no need of whip or wand;
          For Johnny has his holly-bough,
          And with a 'hurly-burly' now                                50
          He shakes the green bough in his hand.

          And Betty o'er and o'er has told
          The Boy, who is her best delight,
          Both what to follow, what to shun,
          What do, and what to leave undone,
          How turn to left, and how to right.

          And Betty's most especial charge,
          Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
          Come home again, nor stop at all,--
          Come home again, whate'er befall,                           60
          My Johnny, do, I pray you do."

          To this did Johnny answer make,
          Both with his head and with his hand,
          And proudly shook the bridle too;
          And then! his words were not a few,
          Which Betty well could understand.

          And now that Johnny is just going,
          Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
          She gently pats the Pony's side,
          On which her Idiot Boy must ride,                           70
          And seems no longer in a hurry.

          But when the Pony moved his legs,
          Oh! then for the poor Idiot Boy!
          For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
          For joy his head and heels are idle,
          He's idle all for very joy.

          And while the Pony moves his legs,
          In Johnny's left hand you may see
          The green bough motionless and dead:
          The Moon that shines above his head                         80
          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.

          And while the Mother, at the door,
          Stands fixed, her face with joy o'erflows,
          Proud of herself, and proud of him,
          She sees him in his travelling trim,                        90
          How quietly her Johnny goes.

          The silence of her Idiot Boy,
          What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
          He's at the guide-post--he turns right;
          She watches till he's out of sight,
          And Betty will not then depart.

          Burr, burr--now Johnny's lips they burr,
          As loud as any mill, or near it;
          Meek as a lamb the Pony moves,
          And Johnny makes the noise he loves,                       100
          And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

          Away she hies to Susan Gale:
          Her Messenger's in merry tune;
          The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,
          And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,
          As on he goes beneath the moon.

          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,                       110
          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 lanes they go,
          And far into the moonlight dale,
          And by the church, and o'er the down,
          To bring a Doctor from the town,                           120
          To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

          And Betty, now at Susan's side,
          Is in the middle of her story,
          What speedy help her Boy will bring,
          With many a most diverting thing,
          Of Johnny's wit, and Johnny's glory.

          And Betty, still at Susan's side,
          By this time is not quite so flurried:
          Demure with porringer and plate
          She sits, as if in Susan's fate                            130
          Her life and soul were buried.

          But Betty, poor good woman! she,
          You plainly in her face may read it,
          Could lend out of that moment's store
          Five years of happiness or more
          To any that might need it.

          But yet I guess that now and then
          With Betty all was not so well;
          And to the road she turns her ears,
          And thence full many a sound she hears,                    140
          Which she to Susan will not tell.

          Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
          "As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
          Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
          They'll both be here--'tis almost ten--
          Both will be here before eleven."

          Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;
          The clock gives warning for eleven;
          'Tis on the stroke--"He must be near,"
          Quoth Betty, "and will soon be here,                       150
          As sure as there's a moon in heaven."

          The clock is on the stroke of twelve,
          And Johnny is not yet in sight:
          --The Moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,
          But Betty is not quite at ease;
          And Susan has a dreadful night.

          And Betty, half an hour ago,
          On Johnny vile reflections cast:
          "A little idle sauntering Thing!"
          With other names, an endless string;                       160
          But now that time is gone and past.

          And Betty's drooping at the heart,
          That happy time all past and gone,
          "How can it be he is so late?
          The Doctor, he has made him wait;
          Susan! they'll both be here anon."

          And Susan's growing worse and worse,
          And Betty's in a sad 'quandary';
          And then there's nobody to say
          If she must go, or she must stay!                          170
          --She's in a sad 'quandary'.

          The clock is on the stroke of one;
          But neither Doctor nor his Guide
          Appears along the moonlight road;
          There's neither horse nor man abroad,
          And Betty's still at Susan's side.

          And Susan now begins to fear
          Of sad mischances not a few,
          That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;
          Or lost, perhaps, and never found;                         180
          Which they must both for ever rue.

          She prefaced half a hint of this
          With, "God forbid it should be true!"
          At the first word that Susan said
          Cried Betty, rising from the bed,
          "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

          "I must be gone, I must away:
          Consider, Johnny's but half-wise;
          Susan, we must take care of him,
          If he is hurt in life or limb"--                           190
          "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

          "What can I do?" says Betty, going,
          "What can I do to ease your pain?
          Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay;
          I fear you're in a dreadful way,
          But I shall soon be back again."

          "Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go!
          There's nothing that can ease my pain,"
          Then off she hies, but with a prayer
          That God poor Susan's life would spare,                    200
          Till she comes back again.

          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;                     210
          'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

          And while she crossed the bridge, there came
          A thought with which her heart is sore--
          Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,
          To hunt the moon within the brook,
          And never will be heard of more.

          Now is she high upon the down,
          Alone amid a prospect wide;
          There's neither Johnny nor his Horse
          Among the fern or in the gorse;                            220
          There's neither Doctor nor his Guide.

          "O saints! what is become of him?
          Perhaps he's climbed into an oak,
          Where he will stay till he is dead;
          Or, sadly he has been misled,
          And joined the wandering gipsy-folk.

          "Or him that wicked Pony's carried
          To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
          Or in the castle he's pursuing
          Among the ghosts his own undoing;                          230
          Or playing with the waterfall."

          At poor old Susan then she railed,
          While to the town she posts away;
          "If Susan had not been so ill,
          Alas! I should have had him still,
          My Johnny, till my dying day."

          Poor Betty, in this sad distemper,
          The Doctor's self could hardly spare:
          Unworthy things she talked, and wild;
          Even he, of cattle the most mild,                          240
          The Pony had his share.

          But now she's fairly in the town,
          And to the Doctor's door she hies;
          'Tis silence all on every side;
          The town so long, the town so wide,
          Is silent as the skies.

          And now she's at the Doctor's door,
          She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap;
          The Doctor at the casement shows
          His glimmering eyes that peep and doze!                    250
          And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

          "O Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?"
          "I'm here, what is't you want with me?"
          "O Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy,
          And I have lost my poor dear Boy,
          You know him--him you often see;

          "He's not so wise as some folks be:"
          "The devil take his wisdom!" said
          The Doctor, looking somewhat grim,
          "What, Woman! should I know of him?"                       260
          And, grumbling, he went back to bed!

          "O woe is me! O woe is me!
          Here will I die, here will I die;
          I thought to find my lost one here,
          But he is neither far nor near,
          Oh! what a wretched Mother I!"

          She stops, she stands, she looks about;
          Which way to turn she cannot tell.
          Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
          If she had heart to knock again;                           270
          --The clock strikes three--a dismal knell!

          Then up along the town she hies,
          No wonder if her senses fail;
          This piteous news so much it shocked her,
          She quite forgot to send the Doctor,
          To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

          And now she's high upon the down,
          And she can see a mile of road:
          "O cruel! I'm almost threescore;
          Such night as this was ne'er before,                       280
          There's not a single soul abroad."

          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,                       290
          That echoes far from hill to hill.

          Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
          Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin,
          A green-grown pond she just has past,
          And from the brink she hurries fast,
          Lest she should drown herself therein.

          And now she sits her down and weeps;
          Such tears she never shed before;
          "Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
          Oh carry back my Idiot Boy!                                300
          And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

          A thought is come into her head:
          The Pony he is mild and good,
          And we have always used him well;
          Perhaps he's gone along the dell,
          And carried Johnny to the wood.

          Then up she springs as if on wings;
          She thinks no more of deadly sin;
          If Betty fifty ponds should see,
          The last of all her thoughts would be                      310
          To drown herself therein.

          O Reader! now that I might tell
          What Johnny and his Horse are doing
          What they've been doing all this time,
          Oh could I put it into rhyme,
          A most delightful tale pursuing!

          Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
          He with his Pony now doth roam
          The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
          To lay his hands upon a star,                              320
          And in his pocket bring it home.

          Perhaps he's turned himself about,
          His face unto his horse's tail,
          And, still and mute, in wonder lost,
          All silent as a horseman-ghost,
          He travels slowly down the vale.

          And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep,
          A fierce and dreadful hunter he;
          Yon valley, now so trim and green,
          In five months' time, should he be seen,                   330
          A desert wilderness will be!

          Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
          And like the very soul of evil,
          He's galloping away, away,
          And so will gallop on for aye,
          The bane of all that dread the devil!

          I to the Muses have been bound
          These fourteen years, by strong indentures:
          O gentle Muses! let me tell
          But half of what to him befell;                            340
          He surely met with strange adventures.

          O gentle Muses! is this kind?
          Why will ye thus my suit repel?
          Why of your further aid bereave me?
          And can ye thus unfriended leave me
          Ye Muses! whom I love so well?

          Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
          Which thunders down with headlong force,
          Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
          As careless as if nothing were,                            350
          Sits upright on a feeding horse?

          Unto his horse--there feeding free,
          He seems, I think, the rein to give;
          Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
          Of such we in romances read:
          --'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

          And that's the very Pony, too!
          Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
          She hardly can sustain her fears;
          The roaring waterfall she hears,                           360
          And cannot find her Idiot Boy.

          Your Pony's worth his weight in gold:
          Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
          She's coming from among the trees,
          And now all full in view she sees
          Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

          And Betty sees the Pony too:
          Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy?
          It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
          'Tis he whom you so long have lost,                        370
          He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.

          She looks again--her arms are up--
          She screams--she cannot move for joy;
          She darts, as with a torrent's force,
          She almost has o'erturned the Horse,
          And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.

          And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud;
          Whether in cunning or in joy
          I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
          Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs                            380
          To hear again her Idiot Boy.

          And now she's at the Pony's tail,
          And now is at the Pony's head,--
          On that side now, and now on this;
          And, almost stifled with her bliss,
          A few sad tears does Betty shed.

          She kisses o'er and o'er again
          Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy;
          She's happy here, is happy there,
          She is uneasy every where;                                 390
          Her limbs are all alive with joy.

          She pats the Pony, where or when
          She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
          The little Pony glad may be,
          But he is milder far than she,
          You hardly can perceive his joy.

          "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
          You've done your best, and that is all:"
          She took the reins, when this was said,
          And gently turned the Pony's head                          400
          From the loud waterfall.

          By this the stars were almost gone,
          The moon was setting on the hill,
          So pale you scarcely looked at her:
          The little birds began to stir,
          Though yet their tongues were still.

          The Pony, Betty, and her Boy,
          Wind slowly through the woody dale;
          And who is she, betimes abroad,
          That hobbles up the steep rough road?                      410
          Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

          Long time lay Susan lost in thought;
          And many dreadful fears beset her,
          Both for her Messenger and Nurse;
          And, as her mind grew worse and worse,
          Her body--it grew better.

          She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
          On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
          Point after point did she discuss;
          And, while her mind was fighting thus,                     420
          Her body still grew better.

          "Alas! what is become of them?
          These fears can never be endured;
          I'll to the wood."--The word scarce said,
          Did Susan rise up from her bed,
          As if by magic cured.

          Away she goes up hill and down,
          And to the wood at length is come;
          She spies her Friends, she shouts a greeting;
          Oh me! it is a merry meeting                               430
          As ever was in Christendom.

          The owls have hardly sung their last,
          While our four travellers homeward wend;
          The owls have hooted all night long,
          And with the owls began my song,
          And with the owls must end.

          For while they all were travelling home,
          Cried Betty, "Tell us, Johnny, do,
          Where all this long night you have been,
          What you have heard, what you have seen:                   440
          And, Johnny, mind you tell us true."

          Now Johnny all night long had heard
          The owls in tuneful concert strive;
          No doubt too he the moon had seen;
          For in the moonlight he had been
          From eight o'clock till five.

          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,                      450
          And the sun did shine so cold!"
          --Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
          And that was all his travel's story,
                                                              1798.

Lines
Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting The Banks Of The Wye During A Tour. July 13, 1798

      FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
      Of five long winters! and again I hear
      These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
      With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
      Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
      That on a wild secluded scene impress
      Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
      The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
      The day is come when I again repose
      Here, under this dark sycamore, and view                        10
      These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
      Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
      Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
      'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
      These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
      Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
      Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
      Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
      With some uncertain notice, as might seem
      Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,                     20
      Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
      The Hermit sits alone.
                              These beauteous forms,
      Through a long absence, have not been to me
      As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
      But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
      Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
      In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
      Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
      And passing even into my purer mind,
      With tranquil restoration:--feelings too                        30
      Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
      As have no slight or trivial influence
      On that best portion of a good man's life,
      His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
      Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
      To them I may have owed another gift,
      Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
      In which the burthen of the mystery,
      In which the heavy and the weary weight
      Of all this unintelligible world,                               40
      Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
      In which the affections gently lead us on,--
      Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
      And even the motion of our human blood
      Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
      In body, and become a living soul:
      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--                        50
      In darkness and amid the many shapes
      Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
      Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
      Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
      How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
      O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
      How often has my spirit turned to thee!
        And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
      With many recognitions dim and faint,
      And somewhat of a sad perplexity,                               60
      The picture of the mind revives again:
      While here I stand, not only with the sense
      Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
      That in this moment there is life and food
      For future years. And so I dare to hope,
      Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
      I came among these hills; when like a roe
      I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
      Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
      Wherever nature led: more like a man                            70
      Flying from something that he dreads, than one
      Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
      (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
      And their glad animal movements all gone by)
      To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
      What then I was. The sounding cataract
      Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
      The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
      Their colours and their forms, were then to me
      An appetite; a feeling and a love,                              80
      That had no need of a remoter charm,
      By thought supplied, nor any interest
      Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
      And all its aching joys are now no more,
      And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
      Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
      Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
      Abundant recompence. For I have learned
      To look on nature, not as in the hour
      Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes                    90
      The still, sad music of humanity,
      Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
      To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
      A presence that disturbs me with the joy
      Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
      Of something far more deeply interfused,
      Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
      And the round ocean and the living air,
      And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
      A motion and a spirit, that impels                             100
      All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
      And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
      A lover of the meadows and the woods,
      And mountains; and of all that we behold
      From this green earth; of all the mighty world
      Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
      And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
      In nature and the language of the sense,
      The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
      The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul                  110
      Of all my moral being.
                              Nor perchance,
      If I were not thus taught, should I the more
      Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
      For thou art with me here upon the banks
      Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
      My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
      The language of my former heart, and read
      My former pleasures in the shooting lights
      Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
      May I behold in thee what I was once,                          120
      My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
      Knowing that Nature never did betray
      The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
      Through all the years of this our life, to lead
      From joy to joy: for she can so inform
      The mind that is within us, so impress
      With quietness and beauty, and so feed
      With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
      Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
      Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all                    130
      The dreary intercourse of daily life,
      Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
      Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
      Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
      Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
      And let the misty mountain-winds be free
      To blow against thee: and, in after years,
      When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
      Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
      Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,                       140
      Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
      For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
      If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
      Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
      Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
      And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
      If I should be where I no more can hear
      Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
      Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
      That on the banks of this delightful stream                    150
      We stood together; and that I, so long
      A worshipper of Nature, hither came
      Unwearied in that service: rather say
      With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
      Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
      That after many wanderings, many years
      Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
      And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
      More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
                                                              1798

The Old Cumberland Beggar

      I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk;
      And he was seated, by the highway side,
      On a low structure of rude masonry
      Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
      Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
      May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
      Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
      That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
      All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
      He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;                   10
      And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
      Of idle computation. In the sun,
      Upon the second step of that small pile,
      Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
      He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
      And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
      That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
      Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
      Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
      Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,                  20
      Approached within the length of half his staff.
        Him from my childhood have I known; and then
      He was so old, he seems not older now;
      He travels on, a solitary Man,
      So helpless in appearance, that for him
      The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
      And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
      But stops,--that he may safely lodge the coin
      Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
      But still, when he has given his horse the rein,                30
      Watches the aged Beggar with a look
      Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
      The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
      She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
      The aged beggar coming, quits her work,
      And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
      The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
      The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
      Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
      The old man does not change his course, the boy                 40
      Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
      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; and, evermore,
      Instead of common and habitual sight
      Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
      And the blue sky, one little span of earth                      50
      Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
      Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground,
      He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
      And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
      Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
      The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
      Impressed on the white road,--in the same line,
      At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
      His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
      Disturb the summer dust; he is so still                         60
      In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
      Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
      Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
      The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
      And urchins newly breeched--all pass him by:
      Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
        But deem not this Man useless.--Statesmen! ye
      Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
      Who have a broom still ready in your hands
      To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,                        70
      Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
      Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
      A burthen of the earth! 'Tis Nature's law
      That none, the meanest of created things,
      Or 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. Then be assured
      That least of all can aught--that ever owned                    80
      The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
      Which man is born to--sink, howe'er depressed,
      So low as to be scorned without a sin;
      Without offence to God cast out of view;
      Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
      Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
      Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
      This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
      Behold a record which together binds
      Past deeds and offices of charity,                              90
      Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
      The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
      And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
      Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
      To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.
      Among the farms and solitary huts,
      Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
      Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
      The mild necessity of use compels
      To acts of love; and habit does the work                       100
      Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
      Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
      By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
      Doth find herself insensibly disposed
      To virtue and true goodness.
                                    Some there are,
      By their good works exalted, lofty minds
      And meditative, authors of delight
      And happiness, which to the end of time
      Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
      In childhood, from this solitary Being,                        110
      Or from like wanderer, haply have received
      (A thing more precious far than all that books
      Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
      That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
      In which they found their kindred with a world
      Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
      Who sits at his own door,--and, like the pear
      That overhangs his head from the green wall,
      Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
      The prosperous and unthinking, they who live                   120
      Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
      Of their own kindred;--all behold in him
      A silent monitor, which on their minds
      Must needs impress a transitory thought
      Of self-congratulation, to the heart
      Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
      His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
      Though he to no one give the fortitude
      And circumspection needful to preserve
      His present blessings, and to husband up                       130
      The respite of the season, he, at least,
      And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
        Yet further.----Many, I believe, there are
      Who live a life of virtuous decency,
      Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
      No self-reproach; who of the moral law
      Established in the land where they abide
      Are strict observers; and not negligent
      In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
      Their kindred, and the children of their blood.                140
      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                    150
      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,
      My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
      Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
      By her own wants, she from her store of meal
      Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
      Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
      Returning with exhilarated heart,                              160
      Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.
        Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
      And while in that vast solitude to which
      The tide of things has borne him, he appears
      To breathe and live but for himself alone,
      Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
      The good which the benignant law of Heaven
      Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
      Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
      To tender offices and pensive thoughts.                        170
      --Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
      And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
      The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
      Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
      And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
      Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
      Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
      Gives the last human interest to his heart.
      May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
      Make him a captive!--for that pent-up din,                     180
      Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
      Be his the natural silence of old age!
      Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
      And have around him, whether heard or not,
      The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
      Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
      Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
      That not without some effort they behold
      The countenance of the horizontal sun,
      Rising or setting, let the light at least                      190
      Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
      And let him, 'where' and 'when' he will, sit down
      Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
      Of highway 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!
                                                              1798.

Animal Tranquility And Decay

                        THE little hedgerow birds,
          That peck along the roads, regard him not.
          He travels on, and in his face, his step,
          His gait, is one expression: every limb,
          His look and bending figure, all bespeak
          A man who does not move with pain, but moves
          With thought.--He is insensibly subdued
          To settled quiet: he is one by whom
          All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
          Long patience hath such mild composure given,               10
          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.
                                                              1798.

Peter Bell
A Tale

                          What's in a 'Name'?
                         .    .    .    .    .
             Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar!

                                PROLOGUE

            THERE'S something in a flying horse,
            There's something in a huge balloon;
            But through the clouds I'll never float
            Until I have a little Boat,
            Shaped like the crescent-moon.

            And now I 'have' a little Boat,
            In shape a very crescent-moon
            Fast through the clouds my boat can sail;
            But if perchance your faith should fail,
            Look up--and you shall see me soon!                       10

            The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring,
            Rocking and roaring like a sea;
            The noise of danger's in your ears,
            And ye have all a thousand fears
            Both for my little Boat and me!

            Meanwhile untroubled I admire
            The pointed horns of my canoe;
            And, did not pity touch my breast,
            To see how ye are all distrest,
            Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you!                     20

            Away we go, my Boat and I--
            Frail man ne'er sate in such another;
            Whether among the winds we strive,
            Or deep into the clouds we dive,
            Each is contented with the other.

            Away we go--and what care we
            For treasons, tumults, and for wars?
            We are as calm in our delight
            As is the crescent-moon so bright
            Among the scattered stars.                                30

            Up goes my Boat among the stars
            Through many a breathless field of light,
            Through many a long blue field of ether,
            Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her:
            Up goes my little Boat so bright!

            The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull--
            We pry among them all; have shot
            High o'er the red-haired race of Mars,
            Covered from top to toe with scars;
            Such company I like it not!                               40

            The towns in Saturn are decayed,
            And melancholy Spectres throng them;--
            The Pleiads, that appear to kiss
            Each other in the vast abyss,
            With joy I sail among them.

            Swift Mercury resounds with mirth,
            Great Jove is full of stately bowers;
            But these, and all that they contain,
            What are they to that tiny grain,
            That little Earth of ours?                                50

            Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:--
            Whole ages if I here should roam,
            The world for my remarks and me
            Would not a whit the better be;
            I've left my heart at home.

            See! there she is, the matchless Earth!
            There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean!
            Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear
            Through the grey clouds; the Alps are here,
            Like waters in commotion!                                 60

            Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands;
            That silver thread the river Dnieper!
            And look, where clothed in brightest green
            Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen;
            Ye fairies, from all evil keep her!

            And see the town where I was born!
            Around those happy fields we span
            In boyish gambols;--I was lost
            Where I have been, but on this coast
            I feel I am a man.                                        70

            Never did fifty things at once
            Appear so lovely, never, never;--
            How tunefully the forests ring!
            To hear the earth's soft murmuring
            Thus could I hang for ever!

            "Shame on you!" cried my little Boat,
            "Was ever such a homesick Loon,
            Within a living Boat to sit,
            And make no better use of it;
            A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon!                  80

            "Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet
            Fluttered so faint a heart before;--
            Was it the music of the spheres
            That overpowered your mortal ears?
            --Such din shall trouble them no more.

            "These nether precincts do not lack
            Charms of their own;--then come with me;
            I want a comrade, and for you
            There's nothing that I would not do;
            Nought is there that you shall not see.                   90

            "Haste! and above Siberian snows
            We'll sport amid the boreal morning;
            Will mingle with her lustres gliding
            Among the stars, the stars now hiding,
            And now the stars adorning.

            "I know the secrets of a land
            Where human foot did never stray;
            Fair is that land as evening skies,
            And cool, though in the depth it lies
            Of burning Africa.                                       100

            "Or we'll into the realm of Faery,
            Among the lovely shades of things;
            The shadowy forms of mountains bare,
            And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair,
            The shades of palaces and kings!

            "Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal
            Less quiet regions to explore,
            Prompt voyage shall to you reveal
            How earth and heaven are taught to feel
            The might of magic lore!"                                110

            "My little vagrant Form of light,
            My gay and beautiful Canoe,
            Well have you played your friendly part;
            As kindly take what from my heart
            Experience forces--then adieu!

            "Temptation lurks among your words;
            But, while these pleasures you're pursuing
            Without impediment or let,
            No wonder if you quite forget
            What on the earth is doing.                              120

            "There was a time when all mankind
            Did listen with a faith sincere
            To tuneful tongues in mystery versed;
            'Then' Poets fearlessly rehearsed
            The wonders of a wild career.

            "Go--(but the world's a sleepy world,
            And 'tis, I fear, an age too late)
            Take with you some ambitious Youth!
            For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth,
            Am all unfit to be your mate.                            130

            "Long have I loved what I behold,
            The night that calms, the day that cheers;
            The common growth of mother-earth
            Suffices me--her tears, her mirth,
            Her humblest mirth and tears.

            "The dragon's wing, the magic ring,
            I shall not covet for my dower,
            If I along that lowly way
            With sympathetic heart may stray,
            And with a soul of power.                                140

            "These given, what more need I desire
            To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
            What nobler marvels than the mind
            May in life's daily prospect find,
            May find or there create?

            "A potent wand doth Sorrow wield;
            What spell so strong as guilty Fear!
            Repentance is a tender Sprite;
            If aught on earth have heavenly might,
            'Tis lodged within her silent tear.                      150

            "But grant my wishes,--let us now
            Descend from this ethereal height;
            Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff,
            More daring far than Hippogriff,
            And be thy own delight!

            "To the stone-table in my garden,
            Loved haunt of many a summer hour,
            The Squire is come: his daughter Bess
            Beside him in the cool recess
            Sits blooming like a flower.                             160

            "With these are many more convened;
            They know not I have been so far;--
            I see them there, in number nine,
            Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine!
            I see them--there they are!

            "There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
            And there my good friend, Stephen Otter;
            And, ere the light of evening fail,
            To them I must relate the Tale
            Of Peter Bell the Potter."                               170

            Off flew the Boat--away she flees,
            Spurning her freight with indignation!
            And I, as well as I was able,
            On two poor legs, toward my stone-table
            Limped on with sore vexation.

            "O, here he is!" cried little Bess--
            She saw me at the garden-door;
            "We've waited anxiously and long,"
            They cried, and all around me throng,
            Full nine of them or more!                               180

            "Reproach me not--your fears be still--
            Be thankful we again have met;--
            Resume, my Friends! within the shade
            Your seats, and quickly shall be paid
            The well-remembered debt."

            I spake with faltering voice, like one
            Not wholly rescued from the pale
            Of a wild dream, or worse illusion;
            But, straight, to cover my confusion,
            Began the promised Tale.                                 190

                               PART FIRST

            ALL by the moonlight river side
            Groaned the poor Beast--alas! in vain;
            The staff was raised to loftier height,
            And the blows fell with heavier weight
            As Peter struck--and struck again.

            "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules
            Of common sense you're surely sinning;
            This leap is for us all too bold;
            Who Peter was, let that be told,
            And start from the beginning."                           200

            ----"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade,"
            Said I, becoming quite collected;
            "And wheresoever he appeared,
            Full twenty times was Peter feared
            For once that Peter was respected.

            "He, two-and-thirty years or more,
            Had been a wild and woodland rover;
            Had heard the Atlantic surges roar
            On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore,
            And trod the cliffs of Dover.                            210

            "And he had seen Caernarvon's towers,
            And well he knew the spire of Sarum;
            And he had been where Lincoln bell
            Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell--
            A far-renowned alarum!

            "At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds,
            And merry Carlisle had be been;
            And all along the Lowlands fair,
            All through the bonny shire of Ayr
            And far as Aberdeen.                                     220

            "And he had been at Inverness;
            And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
            Had danced his round with Highland lasses;
            And he had lain beside his asses
            On lofty Cheviot Hills:

            "And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales,
            Among the rocks and winding 'scars',
            Where deep and low the hamlets lie
            Beneath their little patch of sky
            And little lot of stars:                                 230

            "And all along the indented coast,
            Bespattered with the salt-sea foam;
            Where'er a knot of houses lay
            On headland, or in hollow bay;--
            Sure never man like him did roam!

            "As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
            Have been fast bound, a begging debtor;--
            He travelled here, he travelled there,--
            But not the value of a hair
            Was heart or head the better.                            240

            "He roved among the vales and streams,
            In the green wood and hollow dell;
            They were his dwellings night and day,--
            But nature ne'er could find the way
            Into the heart of Peter Bell.

            "In vain, through every changeful year,
            Did Nature lead him as before;
            A primrose by a river's brim
            A yellow primrose was to him,
            And it was nothing more.                                 250

            "Small change it made on Peter's heart
            To see his gentle panniered train
            With more than vernal pleasure feeding,
            Where'er the tender grass was leading
            Its earliest green along the lane.

            "In vain, through water, earth, and air,
            The soul of happy sound was spread,
            When Peter on some April morn,
            Beneath the broom or budding thorn,
            Made the warm earth his lazy bed.                        260

            "At noon, when, by the forest's edge
            He lay beneath the branches high,
            The soft blue shy did never melt
            Into his heart; he never felt
            The witchery of the soft blue sky!

            "On a fair prospect some have looked
            And felt, as I have heard them say,
            As if the moving time had been
            A thing as steadfast as the scene
            On which they gazed themselves away.                     270

            "Within the breast of Peter Bell
            These silent raptures found no place;
            He was a Carl as wild and rude
            As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
            As ever ran a felon's race.

            "Of all that lead a lawless life,
            Of all that love their lawless lives,
            In city or in village small,
            He was the wildest far of all;--
            He had a dozen wedded wives.                             280

            "Nay, start not!--wedded wives--and twelve!
            But how one wife could e'er come near him,
            In simple truth I cannot tell;
            For, be it said of Peter Bell
            To see him was to fear him.

            "Though Nature could not touch his heart
            By lovely forms, and silent weather,
            And tender sounds, yet you might see
            At once, that Peter Bell and she
            Had often been together.                                 290

            "A savage wildness round him hung
            As of a dweller out of doors;
            In his whole figure and his mien
            A savage character was seen
            Of mountains and of dreary moors.

            "To all the unshaped half-human thoughts
            Which solitary Nature feeds
            'Mid summer storms or winter's ice,
            Had Peter joined whatever vice
            The cruel city breeds.                                   300

            "His face was keen as is the wind
            That cuts along the hawthorn-fence;--
            Of courage you saw little there,
            But, in its stead, a medley air
            Of cunning and of impudence.

            "He had a dark and sidelong walk,
            And long and slouching was his gait;
            Beneath his looks so bare and bold,
            You might perceive, his spirit cold
            Was playing with some inward bait.                       310

            "His forehead wrinkled was and furred;
            A work, one half of which was done
            By thinking of his 'whens' and 'hows;'
            And half, by knitting of his brows
            Beneath the glaring sun.

            "There was a hardness in his cheek,
            There was a hardness in his eye,
            As if the man had fixed his face,
            In many a solitary place,
            Against the wind and open sky!"                          320

            ONE NIGHT, (and now my little Bess!
            We've reached at last the promised Tale:)
            One beautiful November night,
            When the full moon was shining bright
            Upon the rapid river Swale,

            Along the river's winding banks
            Peter was travelling all alone;--
            Whether to buy or sell, or led
            By pleasure running in his head,
            To me was never known.                                   330

            He trudged along through copse and brake,
            He trudged along o'er hill and dale;
            Nor for the moon cared he a tittle,
            And for the stars he cared as little,
            And for the murmuring river Swale.

            But, chancing to espy a path
            That promised to cut short the way
            As many a wiser man hath done,
            He left a trusty guide for one
            That might his steps betray.                             340

            To a thick wood he soon is brought
            Where cheerily his course he weaves,
            And whistling loud may yet be heard,
            Though often buried, like a bird
            Darkling, among the boughs and leaves.

            But quickly Peter's mood is changed,
            And on he drives with cheeks that burn
            In downright fury and in wrath;--
            There's little sign the treacherous path
            Will to the road return!                                 350

            The path grows dim, and dimmer still;
            Now up, now down, the Rover wends,
            With all the sail that he can carry,
            Till brought to a deserted quarry--
            And there the pathway ends.

            He paused--for shadows of strange shape,
            Massy and black, before him lay;
            But through the dark, and through the cold,
            And through the yawning fissures old,
            Did Peter boldly press his way                           360

            Right through the quarry;--and behold
            A scene of soft and lovely hue!
            Where blue and grey, and tender green,
            Together make as sweet a scene
            As ever human eye did view.

            Beneath the clear blue sky he saw
            A little field of meadow ground;
            But field or meadow name it not;
            Call it of earth a small green plot,
            With rocks encompassed round,                            370

            The Swale flowed under the grey rocks,
            But he flowed quiet and unseen;--
            You need a strong and stormy gale
            To bring the noises of the Swale
            To that green spot, so calm and green!

            And is there no one dwelling here,
            No hermit with his beads and glass?
            And does no little cottage look
            Upon this soft and fertile nook?
            Does no one live near this green grass?                  380

            Across the deep and quiet spot
            Is Peter driving through the grass--
            And now has reached the skirting trees;
            When, turning round his head, he sees
            A solitary Ass.

            "A Prize!" cries Peter--but he first
            Must spy about him far and near:
            There's not a single house in sight,
            No woodman's hut, no cottage light--
            Peter, you need not fear!                                390

            There's nothing to be seen but woods,
            And rocks that spread a hoary gleam,
            And this one Beast, that from the bed
            Of the green meadow hangs his head
            Over the silent stream.

            His head is with a halter bound;
            The halter seizing, Peter leapt
            Upon the Creature's back, and plied
            With ready heels his shaggy side;
            But still the Ass his station kept.                      400

            Then Peter gave a sudden jerk,
            A jerk that from a dungeon-floor
            Would have pulled up an iron ring;
            But still the heavy-headed Thing
            Stood just as he had stood before!

            Quoth Peter, leaping from his seat,
            "There is some plot against me laid;"
            Once more the little meadow-ground
            And all the hoary cliffs around
            He cautiously surveyed,                                  410

            All, all is silent--rocks and woods,
            All still and silent--far and near!
            Only the Ass, with motion dull,
            Upon the pivot of his skull
            Turns round his long left ear.

            Thought Peter, What can mean all this?
            Some ugly witchcraft must be here!
            --Once more the Ass, with motion dull,
            Upon the pivot of his skull
            Turned round his long left ear.                          420

            Suspicion ripened into dread;
            Yet with deliberate action slow,
            His staff high-raising, in the pride
            Of skill, upon the sounding hide,
            He dealt a sturdy blow.

            The poor Ass staggered with the shock;
            And then, as if to take his ease,
            In quiet uncomplaining mood,
            Upon the spot where he had stood,
            Dropped gently down upon his knees:                      430

            As gently on his side he fell;
            And by the river's brink did lie;
            And, while he lay like one that mourned,
            The patient Beast on Peter turned
            His shining hazel eye.

            'Twas but one mild, reproachful look,
            A look more tender than severe;
            And straight in sorrow, not in dread,
            He turned the eye-ball in his head
            Towards the smooth river deep and clear.                 440

            Upon the Beast the sapling rings;
            His lank sides heaved, his limbs they stirred;
            He gave a groan, and then another,
            Of that which went before the brother,
            And then he gave a third.

            All by the moonlight river side
            He gave three miserable groans;
            And not till now hath Peter seen
            How gaunt the Creature is,--how lean
            And sharp his staring bones!                             450

            With legs stretched out and stiff he lay:--
            No word of kind commiseration
            Fell at the sight from Peter's tongue;
            With hard contempt his heart was wrung,
            With hatred and vexation.

            The meagre beast lay still as death;
            And Peter's lips with fury quiver;
            Quoth he, "You little mulish dog,
            I'll fling your carcase like a log
            Head-foremost down the river!"                           460

            An impious oath confirmed the threat--
            Whereat from the earth on which he lay
            To all the echoes, south and north,
            And east and west, the Ass sent forth
            A long and clamorous bray!

            This outcry, on the heart of Peter,
            Seems like a note of joy to strike,--
            Joy at the heart of Peter knocks;
            But in the echo of the rocks
            Was something Peter did not like.                        470

            Whether to cheer his coward breast,
            Or that he could not break the chain,
            In this serene and solemn hour,
            Twined round him by demoniac power,
            To the blind work he turned again.

            Among the rocks and winding crags;
            Among the mountains far away;
            Once more the ass did lengthen out
            More ruefully a deep-drawn shout,
            The hard dry see-saw of his horrible bray!               480

            What is there now in Peter's heart!
            Or whence the might of this strange sound?
            The moon uneasy looked and dimmer,
            The broad blue heavens appeared to glimmer,
            And the rocks staggered all around--

            From Peter's hand the sapling dropped!
            Threat has he none to execute;
            "If any one should come and see
            That I am here, they'll think," quoth he,
            "I'm helping this poor dying brute."                     490

            He scans the Ass from limb to limb,
            And ventures now to uplift his eyes;
            More steady looks the moon, and clear
            More like themselves the rocks appear
            And touch more quiet skies.

            His scorn returns--his hate revives;
            He stoops the Ass's neck to seize
            With malice--that again takes flight;
            For in the pool a startling sight
            Meets him, among the inverted trees.                     500

            Is it the moon's distorted face?
            The ghost-like image of a cloud?
            Is it a gallows there portrayed?
            Is Peter of himself afraid?
            Is it a coffin,--or a shroud?

            A grisly idol hewn in stone?
            Or imp from witch's lap let fall?
            Perhaps a ring of shining fairies?
            Such as pursue their feared vagaries
            In sylvan bower, or haunted hall?                        510

            Is it a fiend that to a stake
            Of fire his desperate self is tethering?
            Or stubborn spirit doomed to yell
            In solitary ward or cell,
            Ten thousand miles from all his brethren?

            Never did pulse so quickly throb,
            And never heart so loudly panted;
            He looks, he cannot choose but look;
            Like some one reading in a book--
            A book that is enchanted.                                520

            Ah, well-a-day for Peter Bell!
            He will be turned to iron soon,
            Meet Statue for the court of Fear!
            His hat is up--and every hair
            Bristles, and whitens in the moon!

            He looks, he ponders, looks again;
            He sees a motion--hears a groan;
            His eyes will burst--his heart will break--
            He gives a loud and frightful shriek,
            And back he falls, as if his life were flown!            530

                              PART SECOND

            WE left our Hero in a trance,
            Beneath the alders, near the river;
            The Ass is by the river-side,
            And, where the feeble breezes glide,
            Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver.

            A happy respite! but at length
            He feels the glimmering of the moon;
            Wakes with glazed eve. and feebly signing--
            To sink, perhaps, where he is lying,
            Into a second swoon!                                     540

            He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
            He touches--'tis to him a treasure!
            Faint recollection seems to tell
            That he is yet where mortals dwell--
            A thought received with languid pleasure!

            His head upon his elbow propped,
            Becoming less and less perplexed,
            Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood--
            And then--upon the glassy flood
            His wandering eye is fixed.                              550

            Thought he, that is the face of one
            In his last sleep securely bound!
            So toward the stream his head he bent,
            And downward thrust his staff, intent
            The river's depth to sound.

            'Now'--like a tempest-shattered bark,
            That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
            And in a moment to the verge
            Is lifted of a foaming surge--
            Full suddenly the Ass doth rise!                         560

            His staring bones all shake with joy,
            And close by Peter's side he stands:
            While Peter o'er the river bends,
            The little Ass his neck extends,
            And fondly licks his hands.

            Such life is in the Ass's eyes,
            Such life is in his limbs and ears;
            That Peter Bell, if he had been
            The veriest coward ever seen,
            Must now have thrown aside his fears.                    570

            The Ass looks on--and to his work
            Is Peter quietly resigned;
            He touches here--he touches there--
            And now among the dead man's hair
            His sapling Peter has entwined.

            He pulls--and looks--and pulls again;
            And he whom the poor Ass had lost,
            The man who had been four days dead,
            Head-foremost from the river's bed
            Uprises like a ghost!                                    580

            And Peter draws him to dry land;
            And through the brain of Peter pass
            Some poignant twitches, fast and faster,
            "No doubt," quoth he, "he is the Master
            Of this poor miserable Ass!"

            The meagre Shadow that looks on--
            What would he now? what is he doing?
            His sudden fit of joy is flown,--
            He on his knees hath laid him down,
            As if he were his grief renewing;                        590

            But no--that Peter on his back
            Must mount, he shows well as he can:
            Thought Peter then, come weal or woe,
            I'll do what he would have me do,
            In pity to this poor drowned man.

            With that resolve he boldly mounts
            Upon the pleased and thankful Ass;
            And then, without a moment's stay,
            That earnest Creature turned away
            Leaving the body on the grass.                           600

            Intent upon his faithful watch,
            The Beast four days and nights had past;
            A sweeter meadow ne'er was seen,
            And there the Ass four days had been,
            Nor ever once did break his fast:

            Yet firm his step, and stout his heart;
            The mead is crossed--the quarry's mouth
            Is reached; but there the trusty guide
            Into a thicket turns aside,
            And deftly ambles towards the south.                     610

            When hark a burst of doleful sound!
            And Peter honestly might say,
            The like came never to his ears,
            Though he has been, full thirty years,
            A rover--night and day!

            'Tis not a plover of the moors,
            'Tis not a bittern of the fen;
            Nor can it be a barking fox,
            Nor night-bird chambered in the rocks,
            Nor wild-cat in a woody glen!                            620

            The Ass is startled--and stops short
            Right in the middle of the thicket;
            And Peter, wont to whistle loud
            Whether alone or in a crowd,
            Is silent as a silent cricket.

            What ails you now, my little Bess?
            Well may you tremble and look grave!
            This cry--that rings along the wood,
            This cry--that floats adown the flood,
            Comes from the entrance of a cave:                       630

            I see a blooming Wood-boy there,
            And if I had the power to say
            How sorrowful the wanderer is,
            Your heart would be as sad as his
            Till you had kissed his tears away!

            Grasping a hawthorn branch in hand,
            All bright with berries ripe and red,
            Into the cavern's mouth he peeps;
            Thence back into the moonlight creeps;
            Whom seeks he--whom?--the silent dead:                   640

            His father!--Him doth he require--
            Him hath he sought with fruitless pains,
            Among the rocks, behind the trees;
            Now creeping on his hands and knees,
            Now running o'er the open plains.

            And hither is he come at last,
            When he through such a day has gone,
            By this dark cave to be distrest
            Like a poor bird--her plundered nest
            Hovering around with dolorous moan!                      650

            Of that intense and piercing cry
            The listening Ass conjectures well;
            Wild as it is, he there can read
            Some intermingled notes that plead
            With touches irresistible.

            But Peter--when he saw the Ass
            Not only stop but turn, and change
            The cherished tenor of his pace
            That lamentable cry to chase--
            It wrought in him conviction strange;                    660

            A faith that, for the dead man's sake
            And this poor slave who loved him well,
            Vengeance upon his head will fall,
            Some visitation worse than all
            Which ever till this night befell.

            Meanwhile the Ass to reach his home,
            Is striving stoutly as he may;
            But, while he climbs the woody hill,
            The cry grows weak--and weaker still;
            And now at last it dies away.                            670

            So with his freight the Creature turns
            Into a gloomy grove of beech,
            Along the shade with footsteps true
            Descending slowly, till the two
            The open moonlight reach.

            And there, along the narrow dell,
            A fair smooth pathway you discern,
            A length of green and open road--
            As if it from a fountain flowed--
            Winding away between the fern.                           680

            The rocks that tower on either side
            Build up a wild fantastic scene;
            Temples like those among the Hindoos,
            And mosques, and spires, and abbey windows,
            And castles all with ivy green!

            And, while the Ass pursues his way,
            Along this solitary dell,
            As pensively his steps advance,
            The mosques and spires change countenance
            And look at Peter Bell!                                  690

            That unintelligible cry
            Hath left him high in preparation,--
            Convinced that he, or soon or late,
            This very

The Simplon Pass

                       ------Brook and road
      Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,
      And with them did we journey several hours
      At a slow step. The immeasurable height
      Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
      The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
      And in the narrow rent, at every turn,
      Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,
      The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
      The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,                    10
      Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside
      As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
      And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
      The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,
      Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light--
      Were all like workings of one mind, the features
      Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,
      Characters of the great Apocalypse,
      The types and symbols of Eternity,
      Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.                 20
                                                              1799.

Influence Of Natural Objects
In Calling Forth And Strengthening The Imagination In Boyhood And Early Youth

      WISDOM and Spirit of the universe!
      Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
      And giv'st to forms and images a breath
      And everlasting motion! not in vain,
      By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
      Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
      The passions that build up our human soul;
      Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;
      But with high objects, with enduring things,
      With life and nature; purifying thus                            10
      The elements of feeling and of thought,
      And sanctifying by such discipline
      Both pain and fear,--until we recognise
      A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
        Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
      With stinted kindness. In November days,
      When vapours rolling down the valleys made
      A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
      At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
      When, by the margin of the trembling lake,                      20
      Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went
      In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
      Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
      And by the waters, all the summer long.
      And in the frosty season, when the sun
      Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
      The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,
      I heeded not the summons: happy time
      It was indeed for all of us; for me
      It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud                        30
      The village-clock tolled six--I wheeled about,
      Proud and exulting like an untired horse
      That cares not for his home.--All shod with steel
      We hissed along the polished ice, in games
      Confederate, imitative of the chase
      And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
      The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
      So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
      And not a voice was idle: with the din
      Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;                             40
      The leafless trees and every icy crag
      Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
      Into the tumult sent an alien sound
      Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,
      Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west
      The orange sky of evening died away.
        Not seldom from the uproar I retired
      Into a silent bay, or sportively
      Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
      To cut across the reflex of a star;                             50
      Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
      Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
      When we had given our bodies to the wind,
      And all the shadowy banks on either side
      Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
      The rapid line of motion, then at once
      Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
      Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
      Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
      With visible motion her diurnal round!                          60
      Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
      Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
      Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
                                                              1799

THERE WAS A BOY

      There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
      And islands of Winander!--many a time,
      At evening, when the earliest stars began
      To move along the edges of the hills,
      Rising or setting, would he stand alone,
      Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;
      And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands
      Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth
      Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
      Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,                         10
      That they might answer him.--And they would shout
      Across the watery vale, and shout again,
      Responsive to his call,--with quivering peals,
      And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud
      Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild
      Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause
      Of silence such as baffled his best skill:
      Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung
      Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
      Has carried far into his heart the voice                        20
      Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene
      Would enter unawares into his mind
      With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
      Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received
      Into the bosom of the steady lake.
        This boy was taken from his mates, and died
      In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.
      Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale
      Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs
      Upon a slope above the village-school;                          30
      And, through that church-yard when my way has led
      On summer-evenings, I believe, that there
      A long half-hour together I have stood
      Mute--looking at the grave in which he lies!
                                                              1799.

NUTTING

      It seems a day
      (I speak of one from many singled out)
      One of those heavenly days that cannot die;
      When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
      I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth
      With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
      A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps
      Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,
      Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
      Which for that service had been husbanded,                      10
      By exhortation of my frugal Dame--
      Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
      At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,--and, in truth,
      More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks,
      Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,
      Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook
      Unvisited, where not a broken bough
      Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign
      Of devastation; but the hazels rose
      Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,                    20
      A virgin scene!--A little while I stood,
      Breathing with such suppression of the heart
      As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint
      Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
      The banquet;--or beneath the trees I sate
      Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;
      A temper known to those, who, after long
      And weary expectation, have been blest
      With sudden happiness beyond all hope.
      Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves                     30
      The violets of five seasons re-appear
      And fade, unseen by any human eye;
      Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
      For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
      And--with my cheek on one of those green stones
      That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,
      Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep--
      I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
      In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
      Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,                        40
      The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
      Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
      And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
      And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash
      And merciless ravage: and the shady nook
      Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,
      Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up
      Their quiet being: and, unless I now
      Confound my present feelings with the past;
      Ere from the mutilated bower I turned                           50
      Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
      I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
      The silent trees, and saw 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.
                                                              1799.

"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN"

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

          When she I loved looked every day
          Fresh as a rose in June,
          I to her cottage bent my way,
          Beneath an evening-moon.

          Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
          All over the wide lea;                                      10
          With quickening pace my horse drew nigh
          Those paths so dear to me.

          And now we reached the orchard-plot;
          And, as we climbed the hill,
          The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
          Came near, and nearer still.

          In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
          Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
          And all the while my eyes I kept
          On the descending moon.                                     20

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

          What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
          Into a Lover's head!
          "O mercy!" to myself I cried,
          "If Lucy should be dead!"
                                                              1799.