THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE
FROM CHAUCER

                                   I

          The God of Love--"ah, benedicite!"
          How mighty and how great a Lord is he!
          For he of low hearts can make high, of high
          He can make low, and unto death bring nigh;
          And hard-hearts he can make them kind and free.

                                   II

          Within a little time, as hath been found,
          He can make sick folk whole and fresh and sound:
          Them who are whole in body and in mind,
          He can make sick,--bind can he and unbind
          All that he will have bound, or have unbound.

                                  III

          To tell his might my wit may not suffice;
          Foolish men he can make them out of wise;--
          For he may do all that he will devise;
          Loose livers he can make abate their vice,
          And proud hearts can make tremble in a trice.

                                   IV

          In brief, the whole of what he will, he may;
          Against him dare not any wight say nay;
          To humble or afflict whome'er he will,
          To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill;
          But most his might he sheds on the eve of May.

                                   V

          For every true heart, gentle heart and free,
          That with him is, or thinketh so to be,
          Now against May shall have some stirring--whether
          To joy, or be it to some mourning; never
          At other time, methinks, in like degree.

                                   VI

          For now when they may hear the small birds' song,
          And see the budding leaves the branches throng,
          This unto their remembrance doth bring
          All kinds of pleasure mixed with sorrowing;
          And longing of sweet thoughts that ever long.

                                  VII

          And of that longing heaviness doth come,
          Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home:
          Sick are they all for lack of their desire;
          And thus in May their hearts are set on fire,
          So that they burn forth in great martyrdom.

                                  VIII

          In sooth, I speak from feeling, what though now
          Old am I, and to genial pleasure slow;
          Yet have I felt of sickness through the May,
          Both hot and cold, and heart-aches every day,--
          How hard, alas! to bear, I only know.

                                   IX

          Such shaking doth the fever in me keep
          Through all this May that I have little sleep;
          And also 'tis not likely unto me,
          That any living heart should sleepy be
          In which Love's dart its fiery point doth steep.

                                   X

          But tossing lately on a sleepless bed,
          I of a token thought which Lovers heed;
          How among them it was a common tale,
          That it was good to hear the Nightingale,
          Ere the vile Cuckoo's note be uttered.

                                   XI

          And then I thought anon as it was day,
          I gladly would go somewhere to essay
          If I perchance a Nightingale might hear,
          For yet had I heard none, of all that year,
          And it was then the third night of the May.

                                  XII

          And soon as I a glimpse of day espied,
          No longer would I in my bed abide,
          But straightway to a wood that was hard by,
          Forth did I go, alone and fearlessly,
          And held the pathway down by a brookside;

                                  XIII

          Till to a lawn I came all white and green,
          I in so fair a one had never been.
          The ground was green, with daisy powdered over;
          Tall were the flowers, the grove a lofty cover,
          All green and white; and nothing else was seen.

                                  XIV

          There sate I down among the fair fresh flowers,
          And saw the birds come tripping from their bowers,
          Where they had rested them all night; and they,
          Who were so joyful at the light of day,
          Began to honour May with all their powers.

                                   XV

          Well did they know that service all by rote,
          And there was many and many a lovely note,
          Some, singing loud, as if they had complained;
          Some with their notes another manner feigned;
          And some did sing all out with the full throat.

                                  XVI

          They pruned themselves, and made themselves right gay,
          Dancing and leaping light upon the spray;
          And ever two and two together were,
          The same as they had chosen for the year,
          Upon Saint Valentine's returning day.

                                  XVII

          Meanwhile the stream, whose bank I sate upon,
          Was making such a noise as it ran on
          Accordant to the sweet Birds' harmony;
          Methought that it was the best melody
          Which ever to man's ear a passage won.

                                  XVIII

          And for delight, but how I never wot,
          I in a slumber and a swoon was caught,
          Not all asleep and yet not waking wholly;
          And as I lay, the Cuckoo, bird unholy,
          Broke silence, or I heard him in my thought.

                                  XIX

          And that was right upon a tree fast by,
          And who was then ill satisfied but I?
          Now, God, quoth I, that died upon the rood,
          From thee and thy base throat, keep all that's good,
          Full little joy have I now of thy cry.

                                   XX

          And, as I with the Cuckoo thus 'gan chide,
          In the next bush that was me fast beside,
          I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
          That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
          Echoing thorough all the green wood wide.

                                  XXI

          Ah! good sweet Nightingale! for my heart's cheer,
          Hence hast thou stayed a little while too long;
          For we have had the sorry Cuckoo here,
          And she hath been before thee with her song;
          Evil light on her! she hath done me wrong.

                                  XXII

          But hear you now a wondrous thing, I pray;
          As long as in that swooning-fit I lay,
          Methought I wist right well what these birds meant,
          And had good knowing both of their intent,
          And of their speech, and all that they would say.

                                  XXIII

          The Nightingale thus in my hearing spake:--
          Good Cuckoo, seek some other bush or brake,
          And, prithee, let us that can sing dwell here;
          For every wight eschews thy song to hear,
          Such uncouth singing verily dost thou make.

                                  XXIV

          What! quoth she then, what is't that ails thee now?
          It seems to me I sing as well as thou;
          For mine's a song that is both true and plain,--
          Although I cannot quaver so in vain
          As thou dost in thy throat, I wot not how.

                                  XXV

          All men may understanding have of me,
          But, Nightingale, so may they not of thee;
          For thou hast many a foolish and quaint cry:--
          Thou say'st OSEE, OSEE, then how may I
          Have knowledge, I thee pray, what this may be?

                                  XXVI

          Ah, fool! quoth she, wist thou not what it is?
          Oft as I say OSEE, OSEE, I wis,
          Then mean I, that I should be wonderous fain
          That shamefully they one and all were slain,
          Whoever against Love mean aught amiss.

                                  XXVII

          And also would I that they all were dead,
          Who do not think in love their life to lead;
          For who is loth the God of Love to obey,
          Is only fit to die, I dare well say,
          And for that cause OSEE I cry; take heed!

                                 XXVIII

          Ay, quoth the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law,
          That all must love or die; but I withdraw,
          And take my leave of all such company,
          For mine intent it neither is to die,
          Nor ever while I live Love's yoke to draw.

                                  XXIX

          For lovers of all folk that be alive,
          The most disquiet have and least do thrive;
          Most feeling have of sorrow woe and care,
          And the least welfare cometh to their share;
          What need is there against the truth to strive?

                                  XXX

          What! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind,
          That in thy churlishness a cause canst find
          To speak of Love's true Servants in this mood;
          For in this world no service is so good
          To every wight that gentle is of kind.

                                  XXXI

          For thereof comes all goodness and all worth;
          All gentiless and honour thence come forth;
          Thence worship comes, content and true heart's pleasure,
          And full-assured trust, joy without measure,
          And jollity, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;

                                  XXXII

          And bounty, lowliness, and courtesy,
          And seemliness, and faithful company,
          And dread of shame that will not do amiss;
          For he that faithfully Love's servant is,
          Rather than be disgraced, would chuse to die.

                                 XXXIII

          And that the very truth it is which I
          Now say--in such belief I'll live and die;
          And Cuckoo, do thou so, by my advice.
          Then, quoth she, let me never hope for bliss,
          If with that counsel I do e'er comply.

                                  XXXIV

          Good Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair,
          Yet for all that, the truth is found elsewhere;
          For Love in young folk is but rage, I wis:
          And Love in old folk a great dotage is;
          Who most it useth, him 'twill most impair.

                                  XXXV

          For thereof come all contraries to gladness!
          Thence sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness,
          Mistrust and jealousy, despite, debate,
          Dishonour, shame, envy importunate,
          Pride, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.

                                  XXXVI

          Loving is aye an office of despair,
          And one thing is therein which is not fair;
          For whoso gets of love a little bliss,
          Unless it alway stay with him, I wis
          He may full soon go with an old man's hair.

                                 XXXVII

          And, therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh,
          For trust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry,
          If long time from thy mate thou be, or far,
          Thou'lt be as others that forsaken are;
          Then shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.

                                 XXXVIII

          Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen!
          The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
          For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;
          For many a one hath virtues manifold,
          Who had been nought, if Love had never been.

                                  XXXIX

          For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
          And he from every blemish them defendeth;
          And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,
          In loyalty, and worshipful desire,
          And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.

                                   XL

          Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
          For Love no reason hath but his own will;--
          For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
          True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,
          He lets them perish through that grievous ill.

                                  XLI

          With such a master would I never be;
          For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,
          And knows not when he hurts and when he heals;
          Within this court full seldom Truth avails,
          So diverse in his wilfulness is he.

                                  XLII

          Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
          How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
          And said, Alas! that ever I was born,
          Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,--
          And with that word, she into tears burst out.

                                  XLIII

          Alas, alas! my very heart will break,
          Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak
          Of Love, and of his holy services;
          Now, God of Love; thou help me in some wise,
          That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.

                                  XLIV

          And so methought I started up anon,
          And to the brook I ran and got a stone,
          Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
          And he for dread did fly away full fast;
          And glad, in sooth, was I when he was gone.

                                  XLV

          And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,
          Kept crying "Farewell!--farewell, Popinjay!"
          As if in scornful mockery of me;
          And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
          Till he was far, all out of sight, away.

                                  XLVI

          Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
          And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
          That thou wert near to rescue me; and now,
          Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
          That all this May I will thy songstress be.

                                  XLVII

          Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,
          By this mishap no longer be dismayed,
          Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me;
          Yet if I live it shall amended be,
          When next May comes, if I am not afraid.

                                 XLVIII

          And one thing will I counsel thee also,
          The Cuckoo trust not thou, nor his Love's saw;
          All that she said is an outrageous lie.
          Nay, nothing shall me bring thereto, quoth I,
          For Love, and it hath done me mighty woe.

                                  XLIX

          Yea, hath it? use, quoth she, this medicine;
          This May-time, every day before thou dine,
          Go look on the fresh daisy; then say I,
          Although for pain thou may'st be like to die,
          Thou wilt be eased, and less wilt droop and pine.

                                   L

          And mind always that thou be good and true,
          And I will sing one song, of many new,
          For love of thee, as loud as I may cry;
          And then did she begin this song full high,
          "Beshrew all them that are in love untrue."

                                   LI

          And soon as she had sung it to the end,
          Now farewell, quoth she, for I hence must wend;
          And, God of Love, that can right well and may,
          Send unto thee as mickle joy this day,
          As ever he to Lover yet did send.

                                  LII

          Thus takes the Nightingale her leave of me;
          I pray to God with her always to be,
          And joy of love to send her evermore;
          And shield us from the Cuckoo and her lore,
          For there is not so false a bird as she.

                                  LIII

          Forth then she flew, the gentle Nightingale,
          To all the Birds that lodged within that dale,
          And gathered each and all into one place;
          And them besought to hear her doleful case,
          And thus it was that she began her tale.

                                  LIV

          The Cuckoo--'tis not well that I should hide
          How she and I did each the other chide,
          And without ceasing, since it was daylight;
          And now I pray you all to do me right
          Of that false Bird whom Love can not abide.

                                   LV

          Then spake one Bird, and full assent all gave;
          This matter asketh counsel good as grave,
          For birds we are--all here together brought;
          And, in good sooth, the Cuckoo here is not;
          And therefore we a Parliament will have.

                                  LVI

          And thereat shall the Eagle be our Lord,
          And other Peers whose names are on record;
          A summons to the Cuckoo shall be sent,
          And judgment there be given; or that intent
          Failing, we finally shall make accord.

                                  LVII

          And all this shall be done, without a nay,
          The morrow after Saint Valentine's day,
          Under a maple that is well beseen,
          Before the chamber-window of the Queen,
          At Woodstock, on the meadow green and gay.

                                  LVIII

          She thanked them; and then her leave she took,
          And flew into a hawthorn by that brook;
          And there she sate and sung--upon that tree--
          "For term of life Love shall have hold of me"--
          So loudly, that I with that song awoke.

          Unlearned Book and rude, as well I know,
          For beauty thou hast none, nor eloquence,
          Who did on thee the hardiness bestow
          To appear before my Lady? but a sense
          Thou surely hast of her benevolence,
          Whereof her hourly bearing proof doth give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

          Alas, poor Book! for thy unworthiness,
          To show to her some pleasant meanings writ
          In winning words, since through her gentiless,
          Thee she accepts as for her service fit!
          Oh! it repents me I have neither wit
          Nor leisure unto thee more worth to give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

          Beseech her meekly with all lowliness,
          Though I be far from her I reverence,
          To think upon my truth and stedfastness,
          And to abridge my sorrow's violence,
          Caused by the wish, as knows your sapience,
          She of her liking proof to me would give;
          For of all good she is the best alive.

                                L'ENVOY

          Pleasure's Aurora, Day of gladsomeness!
          Luna by night, with heavenly influence
          Illumined! root of beauty and goodnesse,
          Write, and allay, by your beneficence,
          My sighs breathed forth in silence,--comfort give!
          Since of all good, you are the best alive.

                                EXPLICIT

TROILUS AND CRESIDA
FROM CUAUCER

          Next morning Troilus began to clear
          His eyes from sleep, at the first break of day,
          And unto Pandarus, his own Brother dear,
          For love of God, full piteously did say,
          We must the Palace see of Cresida;
          For since we yet may have no other feast,
          Let us behold her Palace at the least!

          And therewithal to cover his intent
          A cause he found into the Town to go,
          And they right forth to Cresid's Palace went;               10
          But, Lord, this simple Troilus was woe,
          Him thought his sorrowful heart would break in two;
          For when he saw her doors fast bolted all,
          Well nigh for sorrow down he 'gan to fall.

          Therewith when this true Lover 'gan behold,
          How shut was every window of the place,
          Like frost he thought his heart was icy cold;
          For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face,
          Without word uttered, forth he 'gan to pace;
          And on his purpose bent so fast to ride,                    20
          That no wight his continuance espied.

          Then said he thus,--O Palace desolate!
          O house of houses, once so richly dight!
          O Palace empty and disconsolate!
          Thou lamp of which extinguished is the light;
          O Palace whilom day that now art night,
          Thou ought'st to fall and I to die; since she
          Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

          O, of all houses once the crowned boast!
          Palace illumined with the sun of bliss;                     30
          O ring of which the ruby now is lost,
          O cause of woe, that cause has been of bliss:
          Yet, since I may no better, would I kiss
          Thy cold doors; but I dare not for this rout;
          Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out.

          Therewith he cast on Pandarus an eye,
          With changed face, and piteous to behold;
          And when he might his time aright espy,
          Aye as he rode, to Pandarus he told
          Both his new sorrow and his joys of old,                    40
          So piteously, and with so dead a hue,
          That every wight might on his sorrow rue.

          Forth from the spot he rideth up and down,
          And everything to his rememberance
          Came as he rode by places of the town
          Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once.
          Lo, yonder saw I mine own Lady dance,
          And in that Temple she with her bright eyes,
          My Lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

          And yonder with joy-smitten heart have I                    50
          Heard my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play
          I yonder saw her eke full blissfully;
          And yonder once she unto me 'gan say--
          Now, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray!
          And there so graciously did me behold,
          That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

          And at the corner of that self-same house
          Heard I my most beloved Lady dear,
          So womanly, with voice melodious
          Singing so well, so goodly, and so clear,                   60
          That in my soul methinks I yet do hear
          The blissful sound; and in that very place
          My Lady first me took unto her grace.

          O blissful God of Love! then thus he cried,
          When I the process have in memory,
          How thou hast wearied me on every side,
          Men thence a book might make, a history;
          What need to seek a conquest over me,
          Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy
          Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy?                70

          Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire
          Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief.
          Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire
          Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief;
          And live and die I will in thy belief;
          For which I ask for guerdon but one boon,
          That Cresida again thou send me soon.

          Constrain her heart as quickly to return,
          As thou dost mine with longing her to see,
          Then know I well that she would not sojourn.                80
          Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be
          Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee,
          As Juno was unto the Theban blood,
          From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

          And after this he to the gate did go,
          Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was;
          And up and down there went, and to and fro,
          And to himself full oft he said, alas!
          From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass.
          O would the blissful God now for his joy,                   90
          I might her see again coming to Troy!

          And up to yonder hill was I her guide;
          Alas, and there I took of her my leave;
          Yonder I saw her to her Father ride,
          For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;--
          And hither home I came when it was eve;
          And here I dwell an outcast from all joy,
          And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

          And of himself did he imagine oft,
          That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less                 100
          Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft
          Men said, what may it be, can no one guess
          Why Troilus hath all this heaviness?
          All which he of himself conceited wholly
          Out of his weakness and his melancholy.

          Another time he took into his head,
          That every wight, who in the way passed by,
          Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,
          I am right sorry Troilus will die:
          And thus a day or two drove wearily;                       110
          As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead
          As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

          For which it pleased him in his songs to show
          The occasion of his woe, as best he might;
          And made a fitting song, of words but few,
          Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light;
          And when he was removed from all men's sight,
          With a soft night voice, he of his Lady dear,
          That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.

          O star, of which I lost have all the light,                120
          With a sore heart well ought I to bewail,
          That ever dark in torment, night by night,
          Toward my death with wind I steer and sail;
          For which upon the tenth night if thou fail
          With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour,
          My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

          As soon as he this song had thus sung through,
          He fell again into his sorrows old;
          And every night, as was his wont to do,
          Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;                   130
          And all his trouble to the moon he told,
          And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew,
          I shall be glad if all the world be true.

          Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow,
          When hence did journey my bright Lady dear,
          That cause is of my torment and my sorrow;
          For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear;
          For love of God, run fast above thy sphere;
          For when thy horns begin once more to spring,
          Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring.        140

          The day is more, and longer every night
          Than they were wont to be---for he thought so;
          And that the sun did take his course not right,
          By longer way than he was wont to go;
          And said, I am in constant dread I trow,
          That Phaeton his son is yet alive,
          His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

          Upon the walls fast also would he walk,
          To the end that he the Grecian host might see;
          And ever thus he to himself would talk:--                  150
          Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free;
          Or yonder is it that the tents must be;
          And thence does come this air which is so sweet,
          That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

          And certainly this wind, that more and more
          By moments thus increaseth in my face,
          Is of my Lady's sighs heavy and sore;
          I prove it thus; for in no other space
          Of all this town, save only in this place,
          Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain;                 160
          It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

          A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,
          Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;
          And ever at his side stood Pandarus,
          Who busily made use of all his might
          To comfort him, and make his heart more light;
          Giving him always hope, that she the morrow
          Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

            One morning (raw it was and wet--
            A foggy day in winter time)
            A Woman on the road I met,
            Not old, though something past her prime:
            Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
          And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

            The ancient spirit is not dead;
            Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
            Proud was I that my country bred
            Such strength, a dignity so fair:                         10
            She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;
          I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

            When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
            "What is it," said I, "that you bear,
            Beneath the covert of your Cloak,
            Protected from this cold damp air?"
            She answered, soon as she the question heard,
          "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

            And, thus continuing, she said,
            "I had a Son, who many a day                              20
            Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;
            In Denmark he was cast away:
            And I have travelled weary miles to see
          If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

            "The bird and cage they both were his:
            'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim
            He kept it: many voyages
            The singing-bird had gone with him;
            When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;
          From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.         30

            "He to a fellow-lodger's care
            Had left it, to be watched and fed,
            And pipe its song in safety;--there
            I found it when my Son was dead;
            And now, God help me for my little wit!
          I bear it with me, Sir;--he took so much delight in it."

                                                              1800.

ALICE FELL;
OR, POVERTY

          The post-boy drove with fierce career,
          For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
          When, as we hurried on, my ear
          Was smitten with a startling sound.

          As if the wind blew many ways,
          I heard the sound,--and more and more;
          It seemed to follow with the chaise,
          And still I heard it as before.

          At length I to the boy called out;
          He stopped his horses at the word,                          10
          But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
          Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

          The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
          The horses scampered through the rain;
          But, hearing soon upon the blast
          The cry, I bade him halt again.

          Forthwith alighting on the ground,
          "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?"
          And there a little Girl I found,
          Sitting behind the chaise, alone.                           20

          "My cloak!" no other word she spake,
          But loud and bitterly she wept,
          As if her innocent heart would break;
          And down from off her seat she leapt.

          "What ails you, child?"--she sobbed "Look here!"
          I saw it in the wheel entangled,
          A weather-beaten rag as e'er
          From any garden scare-crow dangled.

          There, twisted between nave and spoke,
          It hung, nor could at once be freed;                        30
          But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
          A miserable rag indeed!

          "And whither are you going, child,
          To-night alone these lonesome ways?"
          "To Durham," answered she, half wild--
          "Then come with me into the chaise."

          Insensible to all relief
          Sat the poor girl, and forth did send                       40
          Sob after sob, as if her grief
          Could never, never have an end.

          "My child, in Durham do you dwell?"
          She checked herself in her distress,
          And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
          I'm fatherless and motherless.

          "And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
          Again, as if the thought would choke
          Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
          And all was for her tattered cloak!                         50

          The chaise drove on; our journey's end
          Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
          As if she had lost her only friend
          She wept, nor would be pacified.

          Up to the tavern-door we post;
          Of Alice and her grief I told;
          And I gave money to the host,
          To buy a new cloak for the old.

          "And let it be of duffil grey,
          As warm a cloak as man can sell!"                           60
          Proud creature was she the next day,
          The little orphan, Alice Fell!
                                                              1801.

BEGGARS

          She had a tall man's height or more;
          Her face from summer's noontide heat
          No bonnet shaded, but she wore
          A mantle, to her very feet
          Descending with a graceful flow,
          And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

          Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
          Haughty, as if her eye had seen
          Its own light to a distance thrown,
          She towered, fit person for a Queen                         10
          To lead those ancient Amazonian files;
          Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

          Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
          And begged an alms with doleful plea
          That ceased not; on our English land
          Such woes, I knew, could never be;
          And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature
          Was beautiful to see--a weed of glorious feature.

          I left her, and pursued my way;
          And soon before me did espy                                 20
          A pair of little Boys at play,
          Chasing a crimson butterfly;
          The taller followed with his hat in hand,
          Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

          The other wore a rimless crown
          With leaves of laurel stuck about;
          And, while both followed up and down,
          Each whooping with a merry shout,
          In their fraternal features I could trace
          Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.         30

          Yet 'they', so blithe of heart, seemed fit
          For finest tasks of earth or air:
          Wings let them have, and they might flit
          Precursors to Aurora's car,
          Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
          To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

          They dart across my path--but lo,
          Each ready with a plaintive whine!
          Said I, "not half an hour ago
          Your Mother has had alms of mine."                          40
          "That cannot be," one answered--"she is dead:"--
          I looked reproof--they saw--but neither hung his head.

          "She has been dead, Sir, many a day."--
          "Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie;
          It was your Mother, as I say!"
          And, in the twinkling of an eye,
          "Come! Come!" cried one, and without more ado,
          Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!
                                                              1802.

TO A BUTTERFLY

          Stay near me--do not take thy flight!
          A little longer stay in sight!
          Much converse do I find in thee,
          Historian of my infancy!
          Float near me; do not yet depart!
          Dead times revive in thee:
          Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!
          A solemn image to my heart,
          My father's family!

          Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,                       10
          The time, when, in our childish plays,
          My sister Emmeline and I
          Together chased the butterfly!
          A very hunter did I rush
          Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs
          I followed on from brake to bush;
          But she, God love her, feared to brush
          The dust from off its wings.
                                                              1801.

THE EMIGRANT MOTHER



          Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
          In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;
          The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,
          In friendship she to me would often tell.
          This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,
          Where she was childless, daily would repair
          To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
          For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

          Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace
          This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,
          Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace
          Such things as she unto the Babe might say:
          And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,
          My song the workings of her heart expressed.

                                   I

          "Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,
          One moment let me be thy mother!
          An infant's face and looks are thine,
          And sure a mother's heart is mine:
          Thy own dear mother's far away,
          At labour in the harvest field:
          Thy little sister is at play;--
          What warmth, what comfort would it yield
          To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
          One little hour a child to me!

                                   II

          "Across the waters I am come,
          And I have left a babe at home:
          A long, long way of land and sea!
          Come to me--I'm no enemy:
          I am the same who at thy side
          Sate yesterday, and made a nest
          For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried,
          Thou know'st the pillow of my breast;
          Good, good art thou:--alas! to me
          Far more than I can be to thee.

                                  III

          "Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;
          An infant thou, a mother I!
          Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;
          Mine art thou--spite of these my tears.
          Alas! before I left the spot,
          My baby and its dwelling-place;
          The nurse said to me, 'Tears should not
          Be shed upon an infant's face,
          It was unlucky'--no, no, no;
          No truth is in them who say so!

                                   IV

          "My own dear Little-one will sigh,
          Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.
          'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom,
          And you may see his hour is come.'
          Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,
          Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,
          Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,
          And countenance like a summer's day,
          They would have hopes of him;--and then
          I should behold his face again!

                                   V

          "'Tis gone--like dreams that we forget;
          There was a smile or two--yet--yet
          I can remember them, I see
          The smiles, worth all the world to me.
          Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;
          Thou troublest me with strange alarms;
          Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;
          I cannot keep thee in my arms;
          For they confound me;--where--where is
          That last, that sweetest smile of his?

                                   VI

          "Oh! how I love thee!--we will stay
          Together here this one half day.
          My sister's child, who bears my name,
          From France to sheltering England came;
          She with her mother crossed the sea;
          The babe and mother near me dwell:
          Yet does my yearning heart to thee
          Turn rather, though I love her well:
          Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!
          Never was any child more dear!

                                  VII

          "--I cannot help it; ill intent
          I've none, my pretty Innocent!
          I weep--I know they do thee wrong,
          These tears---and my poor idle tongue.
          Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek
          How cold it is! but thou art good;
          Thine eyes are on me--they would speak,
          I think, to help me if they could.
          Blessings upon that soft, warm face,
          My heart again is in its place!

                                  VIII

          "While thou art mine, my little Love,
          This cannot be a sorrowful grove;
          Contentment, hope, and mother's glee,
          I seem to find them all in thee:
          Here's grass to play with, here are flowers;
          I'll call thee by my darling's name;
          Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,
          Thy features seem to me the same;
          His little sister thou shalt be;
          And, when once more my home I see,
          I'll tell him many tales of Thee."
                                                                        1802.

"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD"

          My heart leaps up when I behold
              A rainbow in the sky:
          So was it when my life began;
          So is it now I am a man;
          So be it when I shall grow old,
              Or let me die!
          The Child is father of the Man;
              I could wish my days to be
          Bound each to each by natural piety.
                                                              1802.

"AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN"

          Among all lovely things my Love had been;
          Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
          About her home; but she had never seen
          A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

          While riding near her home one stormy night
          A single glow-worm did I chance to espy;
          I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
          And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.

          Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay,
          To bear it with me through the stormy night:                10
          And, as before, it shone without dismay;
          Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

          When to the dwelling of my Love I came,
          I went into the orchard quietly;
          And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name,
          Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree.

          The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
          At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree;
          I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here,"
          Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!                     20
                                                              1802.

WRITTEN IN MARCH
WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER.

            The Cock is crowing,
            The stream is flowing,
            The small birds twitter,
            The lake doth glitter,
          The green field sleeps in the sun;
            The oldest and youngest
            Are at work with the strongest;
            The cattle are grazing,
            Their heads never raising;
          There are forty feeding like one!                           10

            Like an army defeated
            The snow hath retreated,
            And now doth fare ill
            On the top of the bare hill;
          The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon:
            There's joy in the mountains;
            There's life in the fountains;
            Small clouds are sailing,
            Blue sky prevailing;
          The rain is over and gone!                                  20
                                                              1801.