"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS"

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

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

          She lived unknown, and few could know
            When Lucy ceased to be;                                   10
          But she is in her grave, and, oh,
            The difference to me!
                                                              1799.

"I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN"

          I travelled among unknown men,
            In lands beyond the sea;
          Nor, England! did I know till then
            What love I bore to thee.

          'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
            Nor will I quit thy shore
          A second time; for still I seem
            To love thee more and more.

          Among thy mountains did I feel
            The joy of my desire;                                     10
          And she I cherished turned her wheel
            Beside an English fire.

          Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
            The bowers where Lucy played;
          And thine too is the last green field
            That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
                                                              1799.

"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER"

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

          "Myself will to my darling be
          Both law and impulse: and with me
          The Girl, in rock and plain,
          In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,                    10
          Shall feel an overseeing power
          To kindle or restrain.

          "She shall be sportive as the fawn
          That wild with glee across the lawn,
          Or up the mountain springs;
          And her's shall be the breathing balm,
          And her's the silence and the calm
          Of mute insensate things.

          "The floating clouds their state shall lend
          To her; for her the willow bend;                            20
          Nor shall she fail to see
          Even in the motions of the Storm
          Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
          By silent sympathy.

          "The stars of midnight shall be dear
          To her; and she shall lean her ear
          In many a secret place
          Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
          And beauty born of murmuring sound
          Shall pass into her face.                                   30

          "And vital feelings of delight
          Shall rear her form to stately height,
          Her virgin bosom swell;
          Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
          While she and I together live
          Here in this happy dell."

          Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
          How soon my Lucy's race was run!
          She died, and left to me
          This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;                     40
          The memory of what has been,
          And never more will be.
                                                              1799.

"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL"

          A slumber did my spirit seal;
            I had no human fears:
          She seemed a thing that could not feel
            The touch of earthly years.

          No motion has she now, no force;
            She neither hears nor sees;
          Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
            With rocks, and stones, and trees.
                                                              1799.

A POET'S EPITAPH

          Art thou a Statist in the van
          Of public conflicts trained and bred?
          --First learn to love one living man;
          'Then' may'st thou think upon the dead.

          A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh!
          Go, carry to some fitter place
          The keenness of that practised eye,
          The hardness of that sallow face.

          Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
          A rosy Man, right plump to see?                             10
          Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,
          This grave no cushion is for thee.

          Or art thou one of gallant pride,
          A Soldier and no man of chaff?
          Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside,
          And lean upon a peasant's staff.

          Physician art thou? one, all eyes,
          Philosopher! a fingering slave,
          One that would peep and botanise
          Upon his mother's grave?                                    20

          Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
          O turn aside,--and take, I pray,
          That he below may rest in peace,
          Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!

          A Moralist perchance appears;
          Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
          And he has neither eyes nor ears;
          Himself his world, and his own God;

          One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
          Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;                      30
          A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
          An intellectual All-in-all!

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

          But who is He, with modest looks,
          And clad in homely russet brown?
          He murmurs near the running brooks
          A music sweeter than their own.                             40

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

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

          In common things that round us lie
          Some random truths he can impart,--                         50
          The harvest of a quiet eye
          That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

          But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
          Hath been an idler in the land;
          Contented if he might enjoy
          The things which others understand.

          --Come hither in thy hour of strength;
          Come, weak as is a breaking wave!
          Here stretch thy body at full length;
          Or build thy house upon this grave.                         60
                                                              1799.

ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF ----

          I come, ye little noisy Crew,
          Not long your pastime to prevent;
          I heard the blessing which to you
          Our common Friend and Father sent.
          I kissed his cheek before he died;
          And when his breath was fled,
          I raised, while kneeling by his side,
          His hand:--it dropped like lead.
          Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
          That can be done, will never fall                           10
          Like his till they are dead.
          By night or day blow foul or fair,
          Ne'er will the best of all your train
          Play with the locks of his white hair,
          Or stand between his knees again.
            Here did he sit confined for hours;
          But he could see the woods and plains,
          Could hear the wind and mark the showers
          Come streaming down the streaming panes.
          Now stretched beneath his grass-green mound                 20
          He rests a prisoner of the ground.
          He loved the breathing air,
          He loved the sun, but if it rise
          Or set, to him where now he lies,
          Brings not a moment's care.
          Alas! what idle words; but take
          The Dirge which for our Master's sake
          And yours, love prompted me to make.
          The rhymes so homely in attire
          With learned ears may ill agree,                            30
          But chanted by your Orphan Quire
          Will make a touching melody.

                                 DIRGE

          Mourn, Shepherd, near thy old grey stone;
          Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
          And mourn when thou art all alone,
          Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!

          Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
          Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
          And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy!
          Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb.                        40

          Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide
          Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,
          As he before had sanctified
          Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

          Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
          Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
          Give, when your thoughts are turned this way,
          A sigh to him whom we deplore.

          For us who here in funeral strain
          With one accord our voices raise,                           50
          Let sorrow overcharged with pain
          Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

          And when our hearts shall feel a sting
          From ill we meet or good we miss,
          May touches of his memory bring
          Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.

               BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS AFTER

          LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat
          But benefits, his gift, we trace--
          Expressed in every eye we meet
          Round this dear Vale, his native place.                     60

          To stately Hall and Cottage rude
          Flowed from his life what still they hold,
          Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
          And blessings half a century old.

          Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
          Thy faults, where not already gone
          From memory, prolong their stay
          For charity's sweet sake alone.

          Such solace find we for our loss;
          And what beyond this thought we crave                       70
          Comes in the promise from the Cross,
          Shining upon thy happy grave.
                                                              1798.

MATTHEW

          If Nature, for a favourite child,
          In thee hath tempered so her clay,
          That every hour thy heart runs wild,
          Yet never once doth go astray,

          Read o'er these lines; and then review
          This tablet, that thus humbly rears
          In such diversity of hue
          Its history of two hundred years.

          --When through this little wreck of fame,
          Cipher and syllable! thine eye                              10
          Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
          Pause with no common sympathy.

          And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
          Then be it neither checked nor stayed:
          For Matthew a request I make
          Which for himself he had not made.

          Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
          Is silent as a standing pool;
          Far from the chimney's merry roar,
          And murmur of the village school.                           20

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

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

          --Thou soul of God's best earthly mould!
          Thou happy Soul! and can it be                              30
          That these two words of glittering gold
          Are all that must remain of thee?
                                                              1799.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS

          We walked along, while bright and red
          Uprose the morning sun;
          And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
          "The will of God be done!"

          A village schoolmaster was he,
          With hair of glittering grey;
          As blithe a man as yon could see
          On a spring holiday.

          And on that morning, through the grass,
          And by the steaming rills,                                  10
          We travelled merrily, to pass
          A day among the hills.

          "Our work," said I, "was well begun,
          Then, from thy breast what thought,
          Beneath so beautiful a sun,
          So sad a sigh has brought?"

          A second time did Matthew stop;
          And fixing still his eye
          Upon the eastern mountain-top,
          To me he made reply:                                        20

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

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

          "With rod and line I sued the sport
          Which that sweet season gave,                               30
          And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
          Beside my daughter's grave.

          "Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
          The pride of all the vale;
          And then she sang;--she would have been
          A very nightingale.

          "Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
          And yet I loved her more,
          For so it seemed, than till that day
          I e'er had loved before.                                    40

          "And, turning from her grave, I met,
          Beside the church-yard yew,
          A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
          With points of morning dew.

          "A basket on her head she bare;
          Her brow was smooth and white:
          To see a child so very fair,
          It was a pure delight!

          "No fountain from its rocky cave
          E'er tripped with foot so free;                             50
          She seemed as happy as a wave
          That dances on the sea.

          "There came from me a sigh of pain
          Which I could ill confine;
          I looked at her, and looked again:
          And did not wish her mine!"

          Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
          Methinks, I see him stand,
          As at that moment, with a bough
          Of wilding in his hand.                                     60
                                                              1799.

THE FOUNTAIN
A CONVERSATION

          We talked with open heart, and tongue
          Affectionate and true,
          A pair of friends, though I was young,
          And Matthew seventy-two.

          We lay beneath a spreading oak,
          Beside a mossy seat;
          And from the turf a fountain broke,
          And gurgled at our feet.

          "Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match
          This water's pleasant tune                                  10
          With some old border-song, or catch
          That suits a summer's noon;

          "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
          Sing here beneath the shade,
          That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
          Which you last April made!"

          In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
          The spring beneath the tree;
          And thus the dear old Man replied,
          The grey-haired man of glee:                                20

          "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears;
          How merrily it goes!
          'Twill murmur on a thousand years,
          And flow as now it flows.

          "And here, on this delightful day,
          I cannot choose but think
          How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
          Beside this fountain's brink.

          "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
          My heart is idly stirred,                                   30
          For the same sound is in my ears
          Which in those days I heard.

          "Thus fares it still in our decay:
          And yet the wiser mind
          Mourns less for what age takes away
          Than what it leaves behind.

          "The blackbird amid leafy trees,
          The lark above the hill,
          Let loose their carols when they please
          Are quiet when they will.                                   40

          "With Nature never do 'they' wage
          A foolish strife; they see
          A happy youth, and their old age
          Is beautiful and free:

          "But we are pressed by heavy laws;
          And often, glad no more,
          We wear a face of joy, because
          We have been glad of yore.

          "If there be one who need bemoan
          His kindred laid in earth,                                  50
          The household hearts that were his own;
          It is the man of mirth.

          "My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
          My life has been approved,
          And many love me; but by none
          Am I enough beloved."

          "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
          The man who thus complains;
          I live and sing my idle songs
          Upon these happy plains;                                    60

          "And, Matthew, for thy children dead
          I'll be a son to thee!"
          At this he grasped my hand, and said,
          "Alas! that cannot be."

          We rose up from the fountain-side;
          And down the smooth descent
          Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
          And through the wood we went;

          And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
          He sang those witty rhymes                                  70
          About the crazy old church-clock,
          And the bewildered chimes.
                                                              1799.

TO A SEXTON

          Let thy wheel-barrow alone--
          Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
          In thy bone-house bone on bone?
          'Tis already like a hill
          In a field of battle made,
          Where three thousand skulls are laid;
          These died in peace each with the other,--
          Father, sister, friend, and brother.

          Mark the spot to which I point!
          From this platform, eight feet square,                      10
          Take not even a finger-joint:
          Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
          Here, alone, before thine eyes,
          Simon's sickly daughter lies,
          From weakness now, and pain defended,
          Whom he twenty winters tended.

          Look but at the gardener's pride--
          How he glories, when he sees
          Roses, lilies, side by side,
          Violets in families!                                        20
          By the heart of Man, his tears,
          By his hopes and by his fears,
          Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
          Of a far superior garden.

          Thus then, each to other dear,
          Let them all in quiet lie,
          Andrew there, and Susan here,
          Neighbours in mortality.
          And, should I live through sun and rain
          Seven widowed years without my Jane,                        30
          O Sexton, do not then remove her,
          Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!
                                                              1799.