Lines
written as a school exerise at Hawkshead, anno aestatis 14

          "AND has the Sun his flaming chariot driven
          Two hundred times around the ring of heaven,
          Since Science first, with all her sacred train,
          Beneath yon roof began her heavenly reign?
          While thus I mused, methought, before mine eyes,
          The Power of EDUCATION seemed to rise;
          Not she whose rigid precepts trained the boy
          Dead to the sense of every finer joy;
          Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender age
          Spurn Reason's law and humour Passion's rage;               10
          But she who trains the generous British youth
          In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth:
          Emerging slow from Academus' grove
          In heavenly majesty she seemed to move.
          Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene
          'Softened the terrors of her awful mien.'
          Close at her side were all the powers, designed
          To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind:
          With panting breast, now pale as winter snows,
          Now flushed as Hebe, Emulation rose;                        20
          Shame followed after with reverted eye,
          And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye;
          Last Industry appeared with steady pace,
          A smile sat beaming on her pensive face.
          I gazed upon the visionary train,
          Threw back my eyes, returned, and gazed again.
          When lo! the heavenly goddess thus began,
          Through all my frame the pleasing accents ran.

          "'When Superstition left the golden light
          And fled indignant to the shades of night;                  30
          When pure Religion reared the peaceful breast
          And lulled the warring passions into rest,
          Drove far away the savage thoughts that roll
          In the dark mansions of the bigot's soul,
          Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful ray,
          And beamed on Britain's sons a brighter day;
          So when on Ocean's face the storm subsides,
          Hushed are the winds and silent are the tides;
          The God of day, in all the pomp of light,
          Moves through the vault of heaven, and dissipates the
              night;                                                  40
          Wide o'er the main a trembling lustre plays,
          The glittering waves reflect the dazzling blaze
          Science with joy saw Superstition fly
          Before the lustre of Religion's eye;
          With rapture she beheld Britannia smile,
          Clapped her strong wings, and sought the cheerful isle,
          The shades of night no more the soul involve,
          She sheds her beam, and, lo! the shades dissolve;
          No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined,
          With mazy rules perplex the weary mind;                     50
          No shadowy forms entice the soul aside,
          Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide.
          Britain, who long her warriors had adored,
          And deemed all merit centred in the sword;
          Britain, who thought to stain the field was fame,
          Now honoured Edward's less than Bacon's name.
          Her sons no more in listed fields advance
          To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lance;
          No longer steel their indurated hearts
          To the mild influence of the finer arts;                    60
          Quick to the secret grotto they retire
          To court majestic truth, or wake the golden lyre;
          By generous Emulation taught to rise,
          The seats of learning brave the distant skies.
          Then noble Sandys, inspired with great design,
          Reared Hawkshead's happy roof, and called it mine.
          There have I loved to show the tender age
          The golden precepts of the classic page;
          To lead the mind to those Elysian plains
          Where, throned in gold, immortal Science reigns;            70
          Fair to the view is sacred Truth displayed,
          In all the majesty of light arrayed,
          To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul
          To roam from heaven to heaven, from pole to pole,
          From thence to search the mystic cause of things
          And follow Nature to her secret springs;
          Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth
          Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth,
          To regulate the mind's disordered frame,
          And quench the passions kindling into flame;                80
          The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge,
          And purge from Vice's dross my tender charge.
          Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue,
          And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do;
          Go to the world, peruse the book of man,
          And learn from thence thy own defects to scan;
          Severely honest, break no plighted trust,
          But coldly rest not here--be more than just;
          Join to the rigours of the sires of Rome
          The gentler manners of the private dome;                    90
          When Virtue weeps in agony of woe,
          Teach from the heart the tender tear to flow;
          If Pleasure's soothing song thy soul entice,
          Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice,
          Arise superior to the Siren's power,
          The wretch, the short-lived vision of an hour;
          Soon fades her cheek, her blushing beauties fly,
          As fades the chequered bow that paints the sky,
            So shall thy sire, whilst hope his breast inspires,
          And wakes anew life's glimmering trembling fires,          100
          Hear Britain's sons rehearse thy praise with joy,
          Look up to heaven, and bless his darling boy.
          If e'er these precepts quelled the passions' strife,
          If e'er they smoothed the rugged walks of life,
          If e'er they pointed forth the blissful way
          That guides the spirit to eternal day,
          Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast,
          Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest.
          Awake, awake! and snatch the slumbering lyre,
          Let this bright morn and Sandys the song inspire.'         110

            "I looked obedience: the celestial Fair
            Smiled like the morn, and vanished into air."

Extract
from the conclusion of a poem,
composed in anticipation of leaving school

          DEAR native regions, I foretell,
          From what I feel at this farewell,
          That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
          And whensoe'er my course shall end,
          If in that hour a single tie
          Survive of local sympathy,
          My soul will cast the backward view,
          The longing look alone on you.

          Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
          Far in the regions of the west,                             10
          Though to the vale no parting beam
          Be given, not one memorial gleam,
          A lingering light he fondly throws
          On the dear hills where first he rose.

Written In Very Early Youth

      CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
      The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
      The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
      Is cropping audibly his later meal:
      Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
      O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
      Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
      Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
      That grief for which the senses still supply
      Fresh food; for only then, when memory                          10
      Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
      Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
      Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
      The officious touch that makes me droop again.

An Evening Walk
Addressed To A Young Lady

      FAR from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove
      Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;
      Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar
      That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore;
      Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads,
      To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads;
      Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,
      Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;
      Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander sleeps
      'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps;              10
      Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore,
      And memory of departed pleasures, more.
        Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child,
      The echoes of your rocks my carols wild:
      The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness,
      A cloudy substitute for failing gladness,
      In youth's keen eye the livelong day was bright,
      The sun at morning, and the stars at night,
      Alike, when first the bittern's hollow bill
      Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moonlight hill.              20
        In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain,
      And hope itself was all I knew of pain;
      For then, the inexperienced heart would beat
      At times, while young Content forsook her seat,
      And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed,
      Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road.
      Alas! the idle tale of man is found
      Depicted in the dial's moral round;
      Hope with reflection blends her social rays
      To gild the total tablet of his days;                           30
      Yet still, the sport of some malignant power,
      He knows but from its shade the present hour.
        But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain?
      To show what pleasures yet to me remain,
      Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear,
      The history of a poet's evening hear?
        When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still,
      Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill,
      And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen,
      Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between;               40
      When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make
      A fence far stretched into the shallow lake,
      Lashed the cool water with their restless tails,
      Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales:
      When school-boys stretched their length upon the green;
      And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene,
      In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer
      Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear;
      When horses in the sunburnt intake stood,
      And vainly eyed below the tempting flood,                       50
      Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress,
      With forward neck the closing gate to press--
      Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill
      Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll
      As by enchantment, an obscure retreat
      Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet.
      While thick above the rill the branches close,
      In rocky basin its wild waves repose,
      Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green,
      Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between;             60
      And its own twilight softens the whole scene,
      Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine
      On withered briars that o'er the crags recline;
      Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade
      Illumines, from within, the leafy shade;
      Beyond, along the vista of the brook,
      Where antique roots its bustling course o'erlook,
      The eye reposes on a secret bridge
      Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge;
      There, bending o'er the stream, the listless swain              70
      Lingers behind his disappearing wain.
      --Did Sabine grace adorn my living line,
      Blandusia's praise, wild stream, should yield to thine!
      Never shall ruthless minister of death
      'Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath;
      No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers,
      No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers;
      The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove
      A more benignant sacrifice approve--
      A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood                            80
      Of happy wisdom, meditating good,
      Beholds, of all from her high powers required,
      Much done, and much designed, and more desired,--
      Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined,
      Entire affection for all human kind.
        Dear Brook, farewell! To-morrow's noon again
      Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain;
      But now the sun has gained his western road,
      And eve's mild hour invites my steps abroad.
      While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite                 90
      In many a whistling circle wheels her flight;
      Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace
      Travel along the precipice's base;
      Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone,
      By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o'ergrown;
      Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle's beard;
      And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard.
        How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view
      The spacious landscape change in form and hue!
      Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood                       100
      Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;
      There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed,
      Come forth, and here retire in purple shade;
      Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,
      Soften their glare before the mellow light;
      The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide
      Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide,
      Shed from their sides, that face the sun's slant beam,
      Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream:
      Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud                  110
      Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud;
      The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire,
      Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire.
        Into a gradual calm the breezes sink,
      A blue rim borders all the lake's still brink;
      There doth the twinkling aspen's foliage sleep,
      And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep:
      And now, on every side, the surface breaks
      Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks;
      Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright                  120
      With thousand thousand twinkling points of light;
      There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away,
      Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray;
      And now the whole wide lake in deep repose
      Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows,
      Save where, along the shady western marge,
      Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge.
        Their panniered train a group of potters goad,
      Winding from side to side up the steep road;
      The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge                    130
      Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge;
      Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume
      Feeding 'mid purple heath, "green rings," and broom;
      While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds,
      Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds;
      In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song,
      Dashed o'er the rough rock, lightly leaps along;
      From lonesome chapel at the mountain's feet,
      Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat;
      Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat;                  140
      And 'blasted' quarry thunders, heard remote!
        Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods,
      Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods,
      Not undelightful are the simplest charms,
      Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms.
      Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks,
      Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks;
      Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread;
      A crest of purple tops the warrior's head.
      Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls             150
      Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls;
      On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat,
      Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote:
      Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings,
      While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings.
        Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine
      And yew-tree o'er the silver rocks recline;
      I love to mark the quarry's moving trains,
      Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains;
      How busy all the enormous hive within,                         160
      While Echo dallies with its various din!
      Some (hear yon not their chisels' clinking sound?)
      Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound;
      Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried,
      O'erwalk the slender plank from side to side;
      These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring,
      In airy baskets hanging, work and sing.
        Just where a cloud above the mountain rears
      An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears;
      A long blue bar its aegis orb divides,                         170
      And breaks the spreading of its golden tides;
      And now that orb has touched the purple steep
      Whose softened image penetrates the deep.
      'Cross the calm lake's blue shades the cliffs aspire,
      With towers and woods, a "prospect all on fire;"
      While coves and secret hollows, through a ray
      Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray.
      Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between
      Shines in the light with more than earthly green:
      Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume,                  180
      Far in the level forest's central gloom:
      Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale,
      Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,--
      The dog, loud barking, 'mid the glittering rocks,
      Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.
      Where oaks o'erhang the road the radiance shoots
      On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots;
      The druid-stones a brightened ring unfold;
      And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold;
      Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still,                   190
      Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.
        In these secluded vales, if village fame,
      Confirmed by hoary hairs, belief may claim;
      When up the hills, as now, retired the light,
      Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd's sight.
        The form appears of one that spurs his steed
      Midway along the hill with desperate speed;
      Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all
      Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall.
      Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show                         200
      Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro;
      At intervals imperial banners stream,
      And now the van reflects the solar beam;
      The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam.
      While silent stands the admiring crowd below,
      Silent the visionary warriors go,
      Winding in ordered pomp their upward way
      Till the last banner of the long array
      Has disappeared, and every trace is fled
      Of splendour--save the beacon's spiry head                     210
      Tipt with eve's latest gleam of burning red.
        Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail,
      On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale;
      And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines
      Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines;
      'Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray
      Where, winding on along some secret bay,
      The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings
      His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings:
      The eye that marks the gliding creature sees                   220
      How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease,
      While tender cares and mild domestic loves
      With furtive watch pursue her as she moves,
      The female with a meeker charm succeeds,
      And her brown little-ones around her leads,
      Nibbling the water lilies as they pass,
      Or playing wanton with the floating grass.
      She, in a mother's care, her beauty's pride
      Forgetting, calls the wearied to her side;
      Alternately they mount her back, and rest                      230
      Close by her mantling wings' embraces prest.
        Long may they float upon this flood serene;
      Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green,
      Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale,
      And breathes in peace the lily of the vale!
      Yon isle, which feels not even the milkmaid's feet,
      Yet hears her song, "by distance made more sweet,"
      Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower;
      Green water-rushes overspread the floor;
      Long grass and willows form the woven wall,                    240
      And swings above the roof the poplar tall.
      Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk,
      They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk;
      Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn
      The hound, the horse's tread, and mellow horn;
      Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings,
      Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings,
      Or, starting up with noise and rude delight,
      Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight.
        Fair Swan! by all a mother's joys caressed,                  250
      Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed;
      When with her infants, from some shady seat
      By the lake's edge, she rose--to face the noontide heat;
      Or taught their limbs along the dusty road
      A few short steps to totter with their load.
        I see her now, denied to lay her head,
      On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed,
      Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry,
      By pointing to the gliding moon on high.
      --When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide,               260
      And fireless are the valleys far and wide,
      Where the brook brawls along the public road
      Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad,
      Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay
      The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play,
      Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted;
      While others, not unseen, are free to shed
      Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed.
        Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail,
      And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale;                  270
      No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold,
      Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold;
      Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield,
      And faint the fire a dying heart can yield!
      Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears
      Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears;
      No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms,
      Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms!
        Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar,
      Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star,                280
      Where the duck dabbles 'mid the rustling sedge,
      And feeding pike starts from the water's edge,
      Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill
      Wetting, that drip upon the water still;
      And heron, as resounds the trodden shore,
      Shoots upward, darting his long neck before.
        Now, with religious awe, the farewell light
      Blends with the solemn colouring of night;
      'Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain's brow,
      And round the west's proud lodge their shadows throw,          290
      Like Una shining on her gloomy way,
      The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray;
      Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small,
      Gleams that upon the lake's still bosom fall;
      Soft o'er the surface creep those lustres pale
      Tracking the motions of the fitful gale.
      With restless interchange at once the bright
      Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light.
      No favoured eye was e'er allowed to gaze
      On lovelier spectacle in faery days;                           300
      When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase,
      Brushing with lucid wands the water's face:
      While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps,
      Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps.
      --The lights are vanished from the watery plains:
      No wreck of all the pageantry remains.
      Unheeded night has overcome the vales:
      On the dark earth the wearied vision fails;
      The latest lingerer of the forest train,
      The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain;                  310
      Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more,
      Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar;
      And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere,
      Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear.
      --Now o'er the soothed accordant heart we feel
      A sympathetic twilight slowly steal,
      And ever, as we fondly muse, we find
      The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind.
      Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay!
      Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away:                      320
      Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains;
      Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains.
        The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread
      Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet's bed,
      From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon
      Salute with gladsome note the rising moon,
      While with a hoary light she frosts the ground,
      And pours a deeper blue to Aether's bound;
      Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold
      In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold.                     330
        Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods
      O'er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods;
      Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace,
      Even now she shews, half-veiled, her lovely face:
      Across the gloomy valley flings her light,
      Far to the western slopes with hamlets white;
      And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew,
      To the green corn of summer, autumn's hue.
        Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn
      Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon's own morn,               340
      Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer
      The weary hills, impervious, blackening near;
      Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while
      On darling spots remote her tempting smile.
        Even now she decks for me a distant scene,
      (For dark and broad the gulf of time between)
      Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray,
      (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way;
      How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear!
      How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!)                  350
      Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise,
      Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs
      (For sighs will ever trouble human breath)
      Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death.
        But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains,
      And, rimy without speck, extend the plains:
      The deepest cleft the mountain's front displays
      Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays;
      From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide
      The hills, while gleams below the azure tide;                  360
      Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes
      A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths
      Of charcoal-smoke, that o'er the fallen wood,
      Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood.
        The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
      Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.
      Air listens, like the sleeping water, still,
      To catch the spiritual music of the hill,
      Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep,
      Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep,                  370
      The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore,
      The boat's first motion--made with dashing oar;
      Sound of closed gate, across the water borne,
      Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn;
      The sportive outcry of the mocking owl;
      And at long intervals the mill-dog's howl;
      The distant forge's swinging thump profound;
      Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound.
                                                      1787, 8, & 9.

Lines
Written While Sailing In A Boat At Evening

          HOW richly glows the water's breast
          Before us, tinged with evening hues,
          While, facing thus the crimson west,
          The boat her silent course pursues!
          And see how dark the backward stream!
          A little moment past so smiling!
          And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
          Some other loiterers beguiling.

          Such views the youthful Bard allure;
          But, heedless of the following gloom,                       10
          He deems their colours shall endure
          Till peace go with him to the tomb.
          --And let him nurse his fond deceit,
          And what if he must die in sorrow!
          Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
          Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
                                                              1789.

Remembrance Of Collins
Composed Upon The Thames Near Richmond

          GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide,
          O Thames! that other bards may see
          As lovely visions by thy side
          As now, fair river! come to me.
          O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
          Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
          Till all our minds for ever flow
          As thy deep waters now are flowing.

          Vain thought!--Yet be as now thou art,
          That in thy waters may be seen                              10
          The image of a poet's heart,
          How bright, how solemn, how serene!
          Such as did once the Poet bless,
          Who murmuring here a later ditty,
          Could find no refuge from distress
          But in the milder grief of pity.
   
          Now let us, as we float along,
          For 'him' suspend the dashing oar;
          And pray that never child of song
          May know that Poet's sorrows more.                          20
          How calm! how still! the only sound,
          The dripping of the oar suspended!
          --The evening darkness gathers round
          By virtue's holiest Powers attended.
                                                              1789.

Decriptive Sketches
Taken During A Pedestrian Tour Among The Alps

      WERE there, below, a spot of holy ground
      Where from distress a refuge might be found,
      And solitude prepare the soul for heaven;
      Sure, nature's God that spot to man had given
      Where falls the purple morning far and wide
      In flakes of light upon the mountain side;
      Where with loud voice the power of water shakes
      The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes.
        Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam,
      Who at the call of summer quits his home,                       10
      And plods through some wide realm o'er vale and height,
      Though seeking only holiday delight;
      At least, not owning to himself an aim
      To which the sage would give a prouder name.
      No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy,
      Though every passing zephyr whispers joy;
      Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease,
      Feeds the clear current of his sympathies.
      For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn;
      And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn!                 20
      Dear is the forest frowning o'er his head,
      And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread:
      Moves there a cloud o'er mid-day's flaming eye?
      Upward he looks--"and calls it luxury:"
      Kind Nature's charities his steps attend;
      In every babbling brook he finds a friend;
      While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed
      By wisdom, moralise his pensive road.
      Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower,
      To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;                    30
      He views the sun uplift his golden fire,
      Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon's lyre;
      Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray,
      To light him shaken by his rugged way.
      Back from his sight no bashful children steal;
      He sits a brother at the cottage-meal;
      His humble looks no shy restraint impart;
      Around him plays at will the virgin heart.
      While unsuspended wheels the village dance,
      The maidens eye him with enquiring glance,                      40
      Much wondering by what fit of crazing care,
      Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there.
        A hope, that prudence could not then approve,
      That clung to Nature with a truant's love,
      O'er Gallia's wastes of corn my footsteps led;
      Her files of road-elms, high above my head
      In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze;
      Or where her pathways straggle as they please
      By lonely farms and secret villages.
      But lo! the Alps ascending white in air,                        50
      Toy with the sun and glitter from afar.
        And now, emerging from the forest's gloom,
      I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom.
      Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe
      Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear?
      'That' Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound,
      Chains that were loosened only by the sound
      Of holy rites chanted in measured round?
      --The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms,
      The cloister startles at the gleam of arms.                     60
      The thundering tube the aged angler hears,
      Bent o'er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears.
      Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads,
      Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o'erspreads;
      Strong terror checks the female peasant's sighs,
      And start the astonished shades at female eyes.
      From Bruno's forest screams the affrighted jay,
      And slow the insulted eagle wheels away.
      A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock
      The Cross, by angels planted on the aerial rock.                70
      The "parting Genius" sighs with hollow breath
      Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.
      Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds
      Portentous through her old woods' trackless bounds,
      Vallombre, 'mid her falling fanes, deplores,
      For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers.
        More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves
      Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves.
      No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps
      Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps.                   80
      --To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain,
      From ringing team apart and grating wain--
      To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water's bound,
      Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound,
      Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling,
      And o'er the whitened wave their shadows fling--
      The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines;
      And Silence loves its purple roof of vines.
      The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees
      From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees;                90
      Or marks, 'mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maids
      Tend the small harvest of their garden glades;
      Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to view
      Stretch o'er the pictured mirror broad and blue,
      And track the yellow lights from steep to steep,
      As up the opposing hills they slowly creep.
      Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed
      In golden light; half hides itself in shade:
      While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire,
      Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire:                 100
      There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw
      Rich golden verdure on the lake below.
      Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,
      And steals into the shade the lazy oar;
      Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,
      And amorous music on the water dies.
      How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets
      Thy open beauties, or thy lone retreats;
      Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales
      Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales;                   110
      Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore,
      Each with its household boat beside the door;
      Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky;
      Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on high;
      That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried
      Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side,
      Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods
      Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods;
      Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey,
      'Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's ray               120
      Slow-travelling down the western hills, to enfold
      Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold;
      Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell
      Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell,
      And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass
      Along the steaming lake, to early mass.
      But now farewell to each and all--adieu
      To every charm, and last and chief to you,
      Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade
      Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade;                  130
      To all that binds the soul in powerless trance,
      Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance;
      Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume
      The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom.
      --Alas! the very murmur of the streams
      Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams,
      While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell
      On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell,
      Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge,
      And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge.                     140
        Yet are thy softer arts with power indued
      To soothe and cheer the poor man's solitude.
      By silent cottage-doors, the peasant's home
      Left vacant for the day, I loved to roam.
      But once I pierced the mazes of a wood
      In which a cabin undeserted stood;
      There an old man an olden measure scanned
      On a rude viol touched with withered hand.
      As lambs or fawns in April clustering lie
      Under a hoary oak's thin canopy,                               150
      Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye,
      His children's children listened to the sound;
      --A Hermit with his family around!
        But let us hence; for fair Locarno smiles
      Embowered in walnut slopes and citron isles:
      Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa's stream,
      Where, 'mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam.
      From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retire
      The dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspire
      To where afar rich orange lustres glow                         160
      Round undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow:
      Or, led where Via Mala's chasms confine
      The indignant waters of the infant Rhine,
      Hang o'er the abyss, whose else impervious gloom
      His burning eyes with fearful light illume.
        The mind condemned, without reprieve, to go
      O'er life's long deserts with its charge of woe,
      With sad congratulation joins the train
      Where beasts and men together o'er the plain
      Move on--a mighty caravan of pain:                             170
      Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings,
      Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs.
      --There be whose lot far otherwise is cast:
      Sole human tenant of the piny waste,
      By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here,
      A nursling babe her only comforter;
      Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock,
      A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke!
        When lightning among clouds and mountain-snows
      Predominates, and darkness comes and goes,                     180
      And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broad
      Starts, like a horse, beside the glaring road--
      She seeks a covert from the battering shower
      In the roofed bridge; a the bridge, ill that dread hour,
      Itself all trembling at the torrent's power.
        Nor is she more at ease on some 'still' night,
      When not a star supplies the comfort of its light;
      Only the waning moon hangs dull and red
      Above a melancholy mountain's head,
      Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs,                   190
      Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes;
      Or on her fingers counts the distant clock,
      Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock,
      Listens, or quakes while from the forest's gulf
      Howls near and nearer yet the famished wolf.
        From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wide
      Descend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide;
      By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day,
      Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they;
      By cells upon whose image, while he prays,                   200
      The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze;
      By many a votive death-cross planted near,
      And watered duly with the pious tear,
      That faded silent from the upward eye
      Unmoved with each rude form of peril nigh;
      Fixed on the anchor left by Him who saves
      Alike in whelming snows, and roaring waves.
        But soon a peopled region on the sight
      Opens--a little world of calm delight;
      Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale,                   210
      Spread rooflike o'er the deep secluded vale,
      And beams of evening slipping in between,
      Gently illuminate a sober scene:--
      Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep,
      There, over rock or sloping pasture creep.
      On as we journey, in clear view displayed,
      The still vale lengthens underneath its shade
      Of low-hung vapour: on the freshened mead
      The green light sparkles;--the dim bowers recede.
      While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull,           220
      And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull,
      In solemn shapes before the admiring eye
      Dilated hang the misty pines on high,
      Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers,
      And antique castles seen through gleamy showers.
        From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake!
      To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri's lake
      In Nature's pristine majesty outspread,
      Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread:
      The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch                     230
      Far o'er the water, hung with groves of beech;
      Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend,
      Nor stop but where creation seems to end.
      Yet here and there, if mid the savage scene
      Appears a scanty plot of smiling green,
      Up from the lake a zigzag path will creep
      To reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep,
      --Before those thresholds (never can they know
      The face of traveller passing to and fro,)
      No peasant leans upon his pole, to tell                        240
      For whom at morning tolled the funeral bell;
      Their watch-dog ne'er his angry bark foregoes,
      Touched by the beggar's moan of human woes;
      The shady porch ne'er offered a cool seat
      To pilgrims overcome by summer's heat.
      Yet thither the world's business finds its way
      At times, and tales unsought beguile the day,
      And 'there' are those fond thoughts which Solitude,
      However stern, is powerless to exclude.
      There doth the maiden watch her lover's sail                   250
      Approaching, and upbraid the tardy gale;
      At midnight listens till his parting oar,
      And its last echo, can be heard no more.
        And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons, cry
      Amid tempestuous vapours driving by,
      Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rear
      That common growth of earth, the foodful ear;
      Where the green apple shrivels on the spray,
      And pines the unripened pear in summer's kindliest ray;
      Contentment shares the desolate domain                         260
      With Independence, child of high Disdain.
      Exulting 'mid the winter of the skies,
      Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies,
      And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes;
      And sometimes, as from rock to rock she bounds
      The Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds,
      And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast,
      Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her haste
      Or thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast.
        Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour,                270
      All day the floods a deepening murmur pour:
      The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight:
      Dark is the region as with coming night;
      But what a sudden burst of overpowering light!
      Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,
      Glances the wheeling eagle's glorious form!
      Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shine
      The wood-crowned cliffs that o'er the lake recline;
      Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold,
      At once to pillars turned that flame with gold:                280
      Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shun
      The 'west', that burns like one dilated sun,
      A crucible of mighty compass, felt
      By mountains, glowing till they seem to melt.
        But, lo! the boatman, overawed, before
      The pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar;
      Confused the Marathonian tale appears,
      While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears.
      And who, that walks where men of ancient days
      Have wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise,             290
      Feels not the spirit of the place control,
      Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul?
      Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills,
      Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills,
      On Zutphen's plain; or on that highland dell,
      Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tell
      What high resolves exalt the tenderest thought
      Of him whom passion rivets to the spot,
      Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe's happiest sigh,
      And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard's eye;                     300
      Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired,
      And glad Dundee in "faint huzzas" expired?
        But now with other mind I stand alone
      Upon the summit of this naked cone,
      And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chase
      His prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space,
        Through vacant worlds where Nature never gave
      A brook to murmur or a bough to wave,
      Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep;
      Thro' worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep;          310
      Where silent Hours their deathlike sway extend,
      Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rend
      Its way with uproar, till the ruin, drowned
      In some dense wood or gulf of snow profound,
      Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound.
      --'Tis his, while wandering on from height to height,
      To see a planet's pomp and steady light
      In the least star of scarce-appearing night;
      While the pale moon moves near him, on the bound
      Of ether, shining with diminished round,                       320
      And far and wide the icy summits blaze,
      Rejoicing in the glory of her rays:
      To him the day-star glitters small and bright,
      Shorn of its beams, insufferably white,
      And he can look beyond the sun, and view
      Those fast-receding depths of sable blue
      Flying till vision can no more pursue!
      --At once bewildering mists around him close,
      And cold and hunger are his least of woes;
      The Demon of the snow, with angry roar                         330
      Descending, shuts for aye his prison door.
      Soon with despair's whole weight his spirits sink;
      Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink;
      And, ere his eyes can close upon the day,
      The eagle of the Alps o'ershades her prey.
        Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar,
      Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar;
      Or rather stay to taste the mild delights
      Of pensive Underwalden's pastoral heights.
      --Is there who 'mid these awful wilds has seen                 340
      The native Genii walk the mountain green?
      Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal,
      Soft music o'er the aerial summit steal?
      While o'er the desert, answering every close,
      Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes.
      --And sure there is a secret Power that reigns
      Here, where no trace of man the spot profanes,
      Nought but the 'chalets', flat and bare, on high
      Suspended 'mid the quiet of the sky;
      Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep,                  350
      And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep.
      How still! no irreligious sound or sight
      Rouses the soul from her severe delight.
      An idle voice the sabbath region fills
      Of Deep that calls to Deep across the hills,
      And with that voice accords the soothing sound
      Of drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round;
      Faint wail of eagle melting into blue
      Beneath the cliffs, and pine-woods' steady 'sugh';
      The solitary heifer's deepened low;                            360
      Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow.
      All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh,
      Blend in a music of tranquillity;
      Save when, a stranger seen below, the boy
      Shouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.
        When, from the sunny breast of open seas,
      And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breeze
      Comes on to gladden April with the sight
      Of green isles widening on each snow-clad height;
      When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill,                  370
      And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill,
      The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale,
      Leaving to silence the deserted vale;
      And like the Patriarchs in their simple age
      Move, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage:
      High and more high in summer's heat they go,
      And hear the rattling thunder far below;
      Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred,
      Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd.
        One I behold who, 'cross the foaming flood,                  380
      Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood;
      Another, high on that green ledge;--he gained
      The tempting spot with every sinew strained;
      And downward thence a knot of grass he throws,
      Food for his beasts in time of winter snows.
      --Far different life from what Tradition hoar
      Transmits of happier lot in times of yore!
      Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowed
      From out the rocks, the wild bees' safe abode:
      Continual waters welling cheered the waste,                    390
      And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste:
      Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled,
      Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled:
      Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare,
      To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare.
      Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land,
      And forced the full-swoln udder to demand,
      Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand.
      Thus does the father to his children tell
      Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well.                    400
      Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod
      Of angry Nature to avenge her God.
      Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts
      Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.
        'Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows
      More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose.
      Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills,
      A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,
      A solemn sea! whose billows wide around
      Stand motionless, to awful silence bound:                      410
      Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear,
      That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear.
      A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue,
      Gapes in the centre of the sea--and, through
      That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound
      Innumerable streams with roar profound.
      Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds,
      And merry flageolet; the low of herds,
      The bark of dogs, the heifer's tinkling bell,
      Talk, laughter, and perchance a churchtower knell:             420
      Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed
      And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised:
      Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less
      Alive to independent happiness,
      Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at eventide
      Upon the fragrant mountain's purple side:
      For as the pleasures of his simple day
      Beyond his native valley seldom stray,
      Nought round its darling precincts can he find
      But brings some past enjoyment to his mind;                    430
      While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure's urn,
      Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.
        Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild,
      Was blest as free--for he was Nature's child.
      He, all superior but his God disdained,
      Walked none restraining, and by none restrained
      Confessed no law but what his reason taught,
      Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought.
      As man in his primeval dower arrayed
      The image of his glorious Sire displayed,                      440
      Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here
      The traces of primeval Man appear;
      The simple dignity no forms debase;
      The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace:
      The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord,
      His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword;
      Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared
      With this "the blessings he enjoys to guard."
        And, as his native hills encircle ground
      For many a marvellous victory renowned,                        450
      The work of Freedom daring to oppose,
      With few in arms, innumerable foes,
      When to those famous fields his steps are led,
      An unknown power connects him with the dead:
      For images of other worlds are there;
      Awful the light, and holy is the air.
      Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul,
      Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll;
      His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain,
      Beyond the senses and their little reign.                      460
        And oft, when that dread vision hath past by,
      He holds with God himself communion high,
      There where the peal of swelling torrents fills
      The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills;
      Or when, upon the mountain's silent brow
      Reclined, he sees, above him and below,
      Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow;
      While needle peaks of granite shooting bare
      Tremble in ever-varying tints of air.
      And when a gathering weight of shadows brown                   470
      Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down;
      And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms,
      Uplift in quiet their illumined forms,
      In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread,
      Tinged like an angel's smile all rosy red--
      Awe in his breast with holiest love unites,
      And the near heavens impart their own delights.
        When downward to his winter hut he goes,
      Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows;
      That hut which on the hills so oft employs                     480
      His thoughts, the central point of all his joys.
      And as a swallow, at the hour of rest,
      Peeps often ere she darts into her nest,
      So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends
      A little prattling child, he oft descends,
      To glance a look upon the well-matched pair;
      Till storm and driving ice blockade him there.
      There, safely guarded by the woods behind,
      He hears the chiding of the baffled wind,
      Hears Winter calling all his terrors round,                    490
      And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound.
        Through Nature's vale his homely pleasures glide,
      Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride;
      The bound of all his vanity, to deck,
      With one bright bell, a favourite heifer's neck;
      Well pleased upon some simple annual feast,
      Remembered half the year and hoped the rest,
      If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard,
      Of thrice ten summers dignify the board.
      --Alas! in every clime a flying ray                            500
      Is all we have to cheer our wintry way;
      And here the unwilling mind may more than trace
      The general sorrows of the human race;
      The churlish gales of penury, that blow
      Cold as the north-wind o'er a waste of snow,
      To them the gentle groups of bliss deny
      That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie.
      Yet more;--compelled by Powers which only deign
      That 'solitary' man disturb their reign,
      Powers that support an unremitting strife                      510
      With all the tender charities of life,
      Full oft the father, when his sons have grown
      To manhood, seems their title to disown;
      And from his nest amid the storms of heaven
      Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven;
      With stern composure watches to the plain--
      And never, eagle-like, beholds again!
        When long-familiar joys are all resigned,
      Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind?
      Lo! where through flat Batavia's willowy groves,               520
      Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves;
      O'er the curled waters Alpine measures swell,
      And search the affections to their inmost cell;
      Sweet poison spreads along the listener's veins,
      Turning past pleasures into mortal pains;
      Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave,
      Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.
        Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!
      Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume!
      Fresh gales and dews of life's delicious morn,                 530
      And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return!
      Alas! the little joy to man allowed
      Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud;
      Or like the beauty in a flower installed,
      Whose season was, and cannot be recalled.
      Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care,
      And taught that pain is pleasure's natural heir,
      We still confide in more than we can know;
      Death would be else the favourite friend of woe.
        'Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine,              540
      Between interminable tracts of pine,
      Within a temple stands an awful shrine,
      By an uncertain light revealed, that falls
      On the mute Image and the troubled walls.
      Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain
      That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen's wretched fane.
      While ghastly faces through the gloom appear,
      Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear;
      While prayer contends with silenced agony,
      Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.                     550
      If the sad grave of human ignorance bear
      One flower of hope--oh, pass and leave it there!
        The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire,
      Flings o'er the wilderness a stream of fire:
      Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day
      Close on the remnant of their weary way;
      While they are drawing toward the sacred floor
      Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more.
      How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste
      The fountains reared for them amid the waste!                  560
      Their thirst they slake:--they wash their toil-worn feet
      And some with tears of joy each other greet.
      Yes, I must see you when ye first behold
      Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold,
      In that glad moment will for you a sigh
      Be heaved, of charitable sympathy;
      In that glad moment when your hands are prest
      In mute devotion on the thankful breast!
        Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields
      With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields:                570
      Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,
      And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;--
      A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns
      Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains;
      Here all the seasons revel hand in hand:
      'Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned,
      They sport beneath that mountain's matchless height
      That holds no commerce with the summer night.
      From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds
      The crash of ruin fitfully resounds;                           580
      Appalling havoc! but serene his brow,
      Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow;
      Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.
        What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh,
      While roars the sullen Arve in anger by,
      That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale!
      Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale;
      That thou, the slaves of slaves, art doomed to pine
      And droop, while no Italian arts are thine,
      To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine.                       590
        Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray,
      With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way,
      On the bleak sides of Cumbria's heath-clad moors,
      Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland's shores;
      To scent the sweets of Piedmont's breathing rose,
      And orange gale that o'er Lugano blows;
      Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails,
      That virtue languishes and pleasure fails,
      While the remotest hamlets blessings share
      In thy loved presence known, and only there;                   600
      'Heart'-blessings--outward treasures too which the eye
      Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy,
      And every passing breeze will testify.
      There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound
      Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound;
      The housewife there a brighter garden sees,
      Where hum on busier wing her happy bees;
      On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow;
      And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,--
      To greet the traveller needing food and rest;                  610
      Housed for the night, or but a half-hour's guest.
        And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees
      Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;
      Though martial songs have banished songs of love,
      And nightingales desert the village grove,
      Scared by the fife and rumbling drum's alarms,
      And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;
      That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh,
      Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry!
      --Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power          620
      Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door:
      All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes
      Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.
      Yes, as I roamed where Loiret's waters glide
      Through rustling aspens heard from side to side,
      When from October clouds a milder light
      Fell where the blue flood rippled into white;
      Methought from every cot the watchful bird
      Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard;
      Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams,          630
      Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams;
      Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf
      Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief;
      The measured echo of the distant flail
      Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale;
      With more majestic course the water rolled,
      And ripening foliage shone with richer gold.
      --But foes are gathering--Liberty must raise
      Red on the hills her beacon's far-seen blaze;
      Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!--                640
      Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour!
      Rejoice, brave Land, though pride's perverted ire
      Rouse hell's own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire:
      Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth;
      As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth!
      --All cannot be: the promise is too fair
      For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air:
      Yet not for this will sober reason frown
      Upon that promise, nor the hope disown;
      She knows that only from high aims ensue                       650
      Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due.
        Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed
      In an impartial balance, give thine aid
      To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside
      Over the mighty stream now spreading wide:
      So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied
      In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs,
      Brood o'er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings!
      And grant that every sceptred child of clay
      Who cries presumptuous, "Here the flood shall stay,"           660
      May in its progress see thy guiding hand,
      And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand;
      Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore,
      Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more!
        To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot
      Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot
      In timely sleep; and when, at break of day,
      On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play,
      With a light heart our course we may renew,
      The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew.              670
      1791 & 1792.

Guilt And Sorrow
Or
IncidentsUpon Salisbury Plain

                                   I

      A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum's Plain
      Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;
      Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain
      Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air
      Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care
      Both of the time to come, and time long fled:
      Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;
      A coat he wore of military red
      But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred.

                                   II

      While thus he journeyed, step by step led on,
      He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure
      That welcome in such house for him was none.
      No board inscribed the needy to allure
      Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor
      And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!"
      The pendent grapes glittered above the door;--
      On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend,
      Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

                                  III

      The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire,
      In streaks diverging wide and mounting high;
      That inn he long had passed; the distant spire,
      Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,
      Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky.
      Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around,
      And scarce could any trace of man descry,
      Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;
      But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

                                   IV

      No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green,
      No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear;
      Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen,
      But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer.
      Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near;
      And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain;
      No voice made answer, he could only hear
      Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain,
      Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.

                                   V

      Long had he fancied each successive slope
      Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn
      And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope
      The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne.
      Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn
      Or hovel from the storm to shield his head,
      But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn,
      And vacant, a huge waste around him spread;
      The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.

                                   VI

      And be it so--for to the chill night shower
      And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared;
      A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour
      Hath told; for, landing after labour hard,
      Full long endured in hope of just reward,
      He to an armed fleet was forced away
      By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared
      Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey,
      'Gainst all that in 'his' heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.

                                  VII

      For years the work of carnage did not cease,
      And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed,
      Death's minister; then came his glad release,
      And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made
      Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid
      The happy husband flies, his arms to throw
      Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid
      In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow
      As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.

                                  VIII

      Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned.
      The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood
      Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned,
      Bears not to those he loves their needful food.
      His home approaching, but in such a mood
      That from his sight his children might have run.
      He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood;
      And when the miserable work was done
      He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun.

                                   IX

      From that day forth no place to him could be
      So lonely, but that thence might come a pang
      Brought from without to inward misery.
      Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang
      A sound of chains along the desert rang;
      He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high
      A human body that in irons swang,
      Uplifted by the tempest whirling by;
      And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.

                                   X

      It was a spectacle which none might view,
      In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain;
      Nor only did for him at once renew
      All he had feared from man, but roused a train
      Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain.
      The stones, as if to cover him from day,
      Rolled at his back along the living plain;
      He fell, and without sense or motion lay;
      But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way.

                                   XI

      As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires
      Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed
      Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,
      Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed
      His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,
      Left his mind still as a deep evening stream.
      Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed,
      Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem
      To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.

                                  XII

      Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled,
      Gone is the raven timely rest to seek;
      He seemed the only creature in the wild
      On whom the elements their rage might wreak;
      Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak
      Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light
      A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek,
      And half upon the ground, with strange affright,
      Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

                                  XIII

      All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound;
      The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays,
      Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round,
      Or on the earth strange lines, in former days
      Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys
      What seems an antique castle spreading wide;
      Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise
      Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide
      He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.

                                  XIV

      Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep
      Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear
      The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep,
      Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year;
      Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear
      For sacrifice its throngs of living men,
      Before thy face did ever wretch appear,
      Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain
      Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain.

                                   XV

      Within that fabric of mysterious form,
      Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme;
      And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm
      And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream
      From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam,
      Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led;
      Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam
      Disclose a naked guide-post's double head,
      Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed.

                                  XVI

      No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm
      To stay his steps with faintness overcome;
      'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm
      Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom;
      No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or broom;
      No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright,
      Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room;
      Along the waste no line of mournful light
      From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

                                  XVII

      At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose;
      The downs were visible--and now revealed
      A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.
      It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,
      Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build
      A lonely Spital, the belated swain
      From the night terrors of that waste to shield:
      But there no human being could remain,
      And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.

                                 XVIII

      Though he had little cause to love the abode
      Of man, or covet sight of mortal face,
      Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,
      How glad he was at length to find some trace
      Of human shelter in that dreary place.
      Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,
      Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace.
      In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows
      He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close;

                                  XIX

      When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come
      From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,
      And saw a woman in the naked room
      Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed:
      The moon a wan dead light around her shed.
      He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail,
      He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped,
      For of that ruin she had heard a tale
      Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;

                                   XX

      Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,
      Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat
      Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,
      While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat;
      Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet,
      Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse:
      The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat,
      Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force
      Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse.

                                  XXI

      Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned
      And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned,
      By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned,
      Cold stony horror all her senses bound.
      Her he addressed in words of cheering sound;
      Recovering heart, like answer did she make;
      And well it was that, of the corse there found,
      In converse that ensued she nothing spake;
      She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.

                                  XXII

      But soon his voice and words of kind intent
      Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind
      In fainter howlings told its 'rage' was spent:
      Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,
      Which by degrees a confidence of mind
      And mutual interest failed not to create.
      And, to a natural sympathy resigned,
      In that forsaken building where they sate
      The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.

                                 XXIII

      "By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man
      Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred;
      And I believe that, soon as I began
      To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
      And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
      And afterwards, by my good father taught,
      I read, and loved the books in which I read;
      For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
      And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

                                  XXIV

      "A little croft we owned--a plot of corn,
      A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,
      And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn
      Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.
      Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!
      My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
      The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime;
      The swans that with white chests upreared in pride
      Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side.

                                  XXV

      "The staff I well remember which upbore
      The bending body of my active sire;
      His seat beneath the honied sycamore
      Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;
      When market-morning came, the neat attire
      With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked;
      Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire
      The stranger till its barking-fit I checked;
      The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked.

                                  XXVI

      "The suns of twenty summers danced along,--
      Too little marked how fast they rolled away:
      But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,
      My father's substance fell into decay:
      We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day
      When Fortune might put on a kinder look;
      But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;
      He from his old hereditary nook
      Must part; the summons came;--our final leave we took.

                                 XXVII

      "It was indeed a miserable hour
      When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
      Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
      That on his marriage day sweet music made!
      Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laid
      Close by my mother in their native bowers:
      Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;--
      I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers
      Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

                                 XXVIII

      "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,
      That when I loved him not I cannot say:
      'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song
      We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May;
      When we began to tire of childish play,
      We seemed still more and more to prize each other;
      We talked of marriage and our marriage day;
      And I in truth did love him like a brother,
      For never could I hope to meet with such another.

                                  XXIX

      "Two years were passed since to a distant town
      He had repaired to ply a gainful trade:
      What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown!
      What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed!
      To him we turned:--we had no other aid:
      Like one revived, upon his neck I wept;
      And her whom he had loved in joy, he said,
      He well could love in grief; his faith he kept;
      And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

                                  XXX

      "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest
      With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.
      Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast;
      And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,
      And knew not why. My happy father died,
      When threatened war reduced the children's meal:
      Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide
      The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,
      And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal.

                                  XXXI

      "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;
      We had no hope, and no relief could gain:
      But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum
      Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain.
      My husband's arms now only served to strain
      Me and his children hungering in his view;
      In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
      To join those miserable men he flew,
      And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

                                 XXXII

      "There were we long neglected, and we bore
      Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed;
      Green fields before us, and our native shore,
      We breathed a pestilential air, that made
      Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed
      For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew,
      'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed,
      That happier days we never more must view.
      The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew.

                                 XXXIII

      "But the calm summer season now was past.
      On as we drove, the equinoctial deep
      Ran mountains high before the howling blast,
      And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep.
      We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep,
      Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,
      Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,
      That we the mercy of the waves should rue:
      We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.

                                 XXXIV

      "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,
      Disease and famine, agony and fear,
      In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,
      It would unman the firmest heart to hear.
      All perished--all in one remorseless year,
      Husband and children! one by one, by sword
      And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear
      Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board
      A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored."

                                  XXXV

      Here paused she of all present thought forlorn,
      Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain expressed,
      Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne,
      From her full eyes their watery load released.
      He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased,
      He rose, and to the ruin's portal went,
      And saw the dawn opening the silvery east
      With rays of promise, north and southward sent;
      And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament.

                                 XXXVI

      "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night
      Of such rough storm, this happy change to view."
      So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight
      Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw;
      Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue
      Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,
      And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew:
      The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer
      Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.

                                 XXXVII

      They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain
      That rang down a bare slope not far remote:
      The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain,
      Whistled the waggoner with merry note,
      The cock far off sounded his clarion throat;
      But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed,
      Only were told there stood a lonely cot
      A long mile thence. While thither they pursued
      Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.

                                XXXVIII

      "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain
      Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest,
      In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main;
      The very ocean hath its hour of rest.
      I too forgot the heavings of my breast.
      How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were!
      As quiet all within me. I was blest,
      And looked, and fed upon the silent air
      Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

                                  XXXIX

      "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps,
      And groans that rage of racking famine spoke;
      The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps,
      The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke,
      The shriek that from the distant battle broke,
      The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host
      Driven by the bomb's incessant thunderstroke
      To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed,
      Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!

                                   XL

      "Some mighty gulf of separation past,
      I seemed transported to another world;
      A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast
      The impatient mariner the sail unfurled,
      And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled
      The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home
      And from all hope I was for ever hurled.
      For me--farthest from earthly port to roam
      Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.

                                  XLI

      "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong)
      That I, at last, a resting-place had found;
      'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long,
      Roaming the illimitable waters round;
      Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned,
      And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'--
      To break my dream the vessel reached its bound;
      And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,
      And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

                                  XLII

      "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift,
      Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock;
      Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,
      Nor raised my hand at any door to knock.
      I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock
      From the cross-timber of an out-house hung:
      Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock!
      At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,
      Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue.

                                  XLIII

      "So passed a second day; and, when the third
      Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort.
      --In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred,
      Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort;
      There, pains which nature could no more support,
      With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;
      And, after many interruptions short
      Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl:
      Unsought for was the help that did my life recall.

                                  XLIV

      "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain
      Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory;
      I heard my neighbours in their beds complain
      Of many things which never troubled me--
      Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,
      Of looks where common kindness had no part,
      Of service done with cold formality,
      Fretting the fever round the languid heart,
      And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start.

                                  XLV

      "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense,
      Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.
      With strength did memory return; and, thence
      Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,
      At houses, men, and common light, amazed.
      The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired,
      Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed,
      The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired,
      And gave me food--and rest, more welcome, more desired.

                                  XLVI

      "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly
      With panniered asses driven from door to door;
      But life of happier sort set forth to me,
      And other joys my fancy to allure--
      The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor
      In barn uplighted; and companions boon,
      Well met from far with revelry secure
      Among the forest glades, while jocund June
      Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

                                  XLVII

      "But ill they suited me--those journeys dark
      O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!
      To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,
      Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.
      The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,
      The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,
      And ear still busy on its nightly watch,
      Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:
      Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

                                  XLVIII

      "What could I do, unaided and unblest?
      My father! gone was every friend of thine:
      And kindred of dead husband are at best
      Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
      With little kindness would to me incline.
      Nor was I then for toil or service fit;
      My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine;
      In open air forgetful would I sit
      Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

                                  XLIX

      "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;
      Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused.
      Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields,
      Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
      The ground I for my bed have often used:
      But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth,
      Is that I have my inner self abused,
      Foregone the home delight of constant truth,
      And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

                                   L

      "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed,
      Through tears have seen him towards that world descend
      Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
      Three years a wanderer now my course I bend--
      Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend
      Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away;
      As if because her tale was at an end,
      She wept; because she had no more to say
      Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

                                   LI

      True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed,
      His looks--for pondering he was mute the while.
      Of social Order's care for wretchedness,
      Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile,
      Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile,
      'Twas not for 'him' to speak--a man so tried,
      Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style
      Proverbial words of comfort he applied,
      And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

                                  LII

      Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight,
      Together smoking in the sun's slant beam,
      Rise various wreaths that into one unite
      Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam:
      Fair spectacle,---but instantly a scream
      Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent;
      They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme,
      And female cries. Their course they thither bent,
      And met a man who foamed with anger vehement,

                                  LIII

      A woman stood with quivering lips and pale,
      And, pointing to a little child that lay
      Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;
      How in a simple freak of thoughtless play
      He had provoked his father, who straightway,
      As if each blow were deadlier than the last,
      Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay
      The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;
      And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.

                                   LIV

      His voice with indignation rising high
      Such further deed in manhood's name forbade;
      The peasant, wild in passion, made reply
      With bitter insult and revilings sad;
      Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
      What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
      The gallows would one day of him be glad;--
      Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow,
      Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.

                                   LV

      Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
      With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
      His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched
      As if he saw--there and upon that ground--
      Strange repetition of the deadly wound
      He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
      At once the griding iron passage found;
      Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
      Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain.

                                  LVI

      Within himself he said--What hearts have we!
      The blessing this a father gives his child!
      Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
      Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild.
      The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled
      The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;
      He kissed his son--so all was reconciled.
      Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke
      Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

                                  LVII

      "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law
      Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece;
      Much need have ye that time more closely draw
      The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
      And that among so few there still be peace:
      Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes
      Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"--
      While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
      A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes.

                                  LVIII

      Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look
      Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene
      Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook,
      That babbled on through groves and meadows green;
      A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between;
      The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays,
      And melancholy lowings intervene
      Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze,
      Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.

                                  LIX

      They saw and heard, and, winding with the road,
      Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale;
      Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed,
      Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale.
      Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale:
      It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread,
      The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail,
      And lustily the master carved the bread,
      Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.

                                   LX

      Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part;
      Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees.
      She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart
      Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease,
      She left him there; for, clustering round his knees,
      With his oak-staff the cottage children played;
      And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees
      And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade
      Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed.

                                  LXI

      A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood;
      Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone.
      She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood
      As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one,
      A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone.
      The carman wet her lips as well behoved;
      Bed under her lean body there was none,
      Though even to die near one she most had loved
      She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.

                                  LXII

      The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain
      And homefelt force of sympathy sincere,
      Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain
      The jolting road and morning air severe.
      The wain pursued its way; and following near
      In pure compassion she her steps retraced
      Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here,"
      She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste
      The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.

                                  LXIII

      While to the door with eager speed they ran,
      From her bare straw the Woman half upraised
      Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan;
      No pity asking, on the group she gazed
      With a dim eye, distracted and amazed;
      Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan.
      Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised,
      I have a house that I can call my own;
      Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!"

                                  LXIV

      So in they bear her to the chimney seat,
      And busily, though yet with fear, untie
      Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet
      And chafe her temples, careful hands apply.
      Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh
      She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear;
      Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die,
      The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear;
      Till now I did not think my end had been so near.

                                  LXV

      "Barred every comfort labour could procure,
      Suffering what no endurance could assuage,
      I was compelled to seek my father's door,
      Though loth to be a burthen on his age.
      But sickness stopped me in an early stage
      Of my sad journey; and within the wain
      They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage,
      Unless beneath your roof I may remain;
      For I shall never see my father's door again.

                                  LXVI

      "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome;
      But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek
      May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb:
      Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak
      Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.--
      Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea
      Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek,
      My husband served in sad captivity
      On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.

                                  LXVII

      "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares,
      Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
      Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
      Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
      Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,
      Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie;
      A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
      In vain to find a friendly face we try,
      Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

                                 LXVIII

      "For evil tongues made oath how on that day
      My husband lurked about the neighbourhood;
      Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
      And 'he' had done the deed in the dark wood--
      Near his own home!--but he was mild and good;
      Never on earth was gentler creature seen;
      He'd not have robbed the raven of its food.
      My husband's lovingkindness stood between
      Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

                                  LXIX

      Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath
      The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness
      His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death,
      He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless
      With her last words, unable to suppress
      His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
      And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
      He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live
      I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!"

                                  LXX

      To tell the change that Voice within her wrought
      Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
      A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
      And every mortal pang dissolved away.
      Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
      Yet still while over her the husband bent,
      A look was in her face which seemed to say,
      "Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent
      Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."

                                  LXXI

      'She' slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped,
      Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took
      Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,
      When on his own he cast a rueful look.
      His ears were never silent; sleep forsook
      His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
      All night from time to time under him shook
      The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;
      And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

                                  LXXII

      The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot,
      And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care
      Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
      Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer
      He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
      The corse interred, not one hour heremained
      Beneath their roof, but to the open air
      A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,
      He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

                                 LXXIII

      Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
      For act and suffering, to the city straight
      He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
      "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait,
      Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."
      Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:
      "O welcome sentence which will end though late,"
      He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came
      Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

                                  LXXIV

      His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
      (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
      They hung not:--no one on 'his' form or face
      Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
      No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
      By lawless curiosity or chance,
      When into storm the evening sky is wrought,
      Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
      And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.
                                                           1793-94.

Lines
Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.

      NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
      Far from all human dwelling: what if here
      No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
      What if the bee love not these barren boughs?
      Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
      That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
      By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
      --------------------Who he was
      That piled these stones and with the mossy sod
      First covered, and here taught this aged Tree                   10
      With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
      I well remember.--He was one who owned
      No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
      And led by nature into a wild scene
      Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
      A favoured Being, knowing no desire
      Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
      Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
      And scorn,--against all enemies prepared,
      All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,                  20
      Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
      With indignation turned himself away,
      And with the food of pride sustained his soul
      In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
      Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
      His only visitants a straggling sheep,
      The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:
      And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
      And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,
      Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour                        30
      A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
      An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
      And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze
      On the more distant scene,--how lovely 'tis
      Thou seest,--and he would gaze till it became
      Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
      The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,
      When nature had subdued him to herself,
      Would he forget those Beings to whose minds,
      Warm from the labours of benevolence,                           40
      The world, and human life, appeared a scene
      Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
      Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
      What he must never feel: and so, lost Man!
      On visionary views would fancy feed,
      Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
      He died,--this seat his only monument.
        If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms
      Of young imagination have kept pure,
      Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,            50
      Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
      Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt
      For any living thing, hath faculties
      Which he has never used; that thought with him
      Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
      Is ever on himself doth look on one,
      The least of Nature's works, one who might move
      The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
      Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
      Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;                   60
      True dignity abides with him alone
      Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
      Can still suspect, and still revere himself
      In lowliness of heart.
                                                              1795.

The Borderers
A Tragedy




                           DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

                     _
          MARMADUKE.  |
          OSWALD.     |
          WALLACE.    |- Of the Band of Borderers.
          LACY.       |
          LENNOX.    _|
          HERBERT.
          WILFRED, Servant to MARMADUKE.
          Host.
          Forester.
          ELDRED, a Peasant.
          Peasant, Pilgrims, etc.

          IDONEA.
          Female Beggar.
          ELEANOR, Wife to ELDRED.

      SCENE--Borders of England and Scotland.
      TIME--The Reign of Henry III.

        Readers already acquainted with my Poems will recognise, in the
      following composition, some eight or ten lines which I have not
      scrupled to retain in the places where they originally stood. It
      is proper, however, to add, that they would not have been used
      elsewhere, if I had foreseen the time when I might be induced to
      publish this Tragedy.

        February 28, 1842.
                             _____________

                                 ACT I.

      SCENE--Road in a Wood.
      WALLACE and LACY.

        LACY. The troop will be impatient; let us hie
      Back to our post, and strip the Scottish Foray
      Of their rich Spoil, ere they recross the Border.
      --Pity that our young Chief will have no part
      In this good service.
        WAL. Rather let us grieve
      That, in the undertaking which has caused
      His absence, he hath sought, whate'er his aim,
      Companionship with One of crooked ways,
      From whose perverted soul can come no good
      To our confiding, open-hearted, Leader.
        LACY. True; and, remembering how the Band have proved
      That Oswald finds small favour in our sight,
      Well may we wonder he has gained such power
      Over our much-loved Captain.
        WAL. I have heard
      Of some dark deed to which in early life
      His passion drove him--then a Voyager
      Upon the midland Sea. You knew his bearing
      In Palestine?
        LACY. Where he despised alike
      Mahommedan and Christian. But enough;
      Let us begone--the Band may else be foiled. [Exeunt.

      Enter MARMADUKE and WILFRED.

        WIL. Be cautious, my dear Master!
        MAR. I perceive
      That fear is like a cloak which old men huddle
      About their love, as if to keep it warm.
        WIL. Nay, but I grieve that we should part. This Stranger,
      For such he is----
        MAR. Your busy fancies, Wilfred,
      Might tempt me to a smile; but what of him?
        WIL. You know that you have saved his life.
        MAR. I know it.
        WIL. And that he hates you!--Pardon me, perhaps
      That word was hasty.
        MAR. Fy! no more of it.
        WIL. Dear Master! gratitude's a heavy burden
      To a proud Soul.--Nobody loves this Oswald--
      Yourself, you do not love him.
        MAR. I do more,
      I honour him. Strong feelings to his heart
      Are natural; and from no one can be learnt
      More of man's thoughts and ways than his experience
      Has given him power to teach: and then for courage
      And enterprise--what perils hath he shunned?
      What obstacles hath he failed to overcome?
      Answer these questions, from our common knowledge,
      And be at rest.
        WIL. Oh, Sir!
        MAR. Peace, my good Wilfred;
      Repair to Liddesdale, and tell the Band
      I shall be with them in two days, at farthest.
        WIL. May He whose eye is over all protect you! [Exit.

      Enter OSWALD (a bunch of plants in his hand).

        OSW. This wood is rich in plants and curious simples.
        MAR. (looking at them). The wild rose, and the poppy, and the
          nightshade:
      Which is your favourite, Oswald?
        OSW. That which, while it is
      Strong to destroy, is also strong to heal--
      [Looking forward.
      Not yet in sight!--We'll saunter here awhile;
      They cannot mount the hill, by us unseen.
        MAR. (a letter in his hand). It is no common thing when one like
          you
      Performs these delicate services, and therefore
      I feel myself much bounden to you, Oswald;
      'Tis a strange letter this!--You saw her write it?
        OSW. And saw the tears with which she blotted it.
        MAR. And nothing less would satisfy him?
        OSW. No less;
      For that another in his Child's affection
      Should hold a place, as if 'twere robbery,
      He seemed to quarrel with the very thought.
      Besides, I know not what strange prejudice
      Is rooted in his mind; this Band of ours,
      Which you've collected for the noblest ends,
      Along the confines of the Esk and Tweed
      To guard the Innocent--he calls us "Outlaws";
      And, for yourself, in plain terms he asserts
      This garb was taken up that indolence
      Might want no cover, and rapacity
      Be better fed.
        MAR. Ne'er may I own the heart
      That cannot feel for one, helpless as he is.
        OSW. Thou know'st me for a Man not easily moved,
      Yet was I grievously provoked to think
      Of what I witnessed.
        MAR. This day will suffice
      To end her wrongs.
        OSW. But if the blind Man's tale
      Should 'yet' be true?
        MAR. Would it were possible!
      Did not the soldier tell thee that himself,
      And others who survived the wreck, beheld
      The Baron Herbert perish in the waves
      Upon the coast of Cyprus?
        OSW. Yes, even so,
      And I had heard the like before: in sooth
      The tale of this his quondam Barony
      Is cunningly devised; and, on the back
      Of his forlorn appearance, could not fail
      To make the proud and vain his tributaries,
      And stir the pulse of lazy charity.
      The seignories of Herbert are in Devon;
      We, neighbours of the Esk and Tweed: 'tis much
      The Arch-Impostor--
        MAR. Treat him gently, Oswald;
      Though I have never seen his face, methinks,
      There cannot come a day when I shall cease
      To love him. I remember, when a Boy
      Of scarcely seven years' growth, beneath the Elm
      That casts its shade over our village school,
      'Twas my delight to sit and hear Idonea
      Repeat her Father's terrible adventures,
      Till all the band of playmates wept together;
      And that was the beginning of my love.
      And, through all converse of our later years,
      An image of this old Man still was present,
      When I had been most happy. Pardon me
      If this be idly spoken.
        OSW. See, they come,
      Two Travellers!
        MAR. (points). The woman is Idonea.
        OSW. And leading Herbert.
        MAR. We must let them pass--
      This thicket will conceal us.
      [They step aside.

      Enter IDONEA, leading HERBERT blind.

        IDON. Dear Father, you sigh deeply; ever since
      We left the willow shade by the brook-side,
      Your natural breathing has been troubled.
        HER. Nay,
      You are too fearful; yet must I confess,
      Our march of yesterday had better suited
      A firmer step than mine.
        IDON. That dismal Moor--
      In spite of all the larks that cheered our path,
      I never can forgive it: but how steadily
      'You' paced along, when the bewildering moonlight
      Mocked me with many a strange fantastic shape!--
      I thought the Convent never would appear;
      It seemed to move away from us: and yet,
      That you are thus the fault is mine; for the air
      Was soft and warm, no dew lay on the grass,
      And midway on the waste ere night had fallen
      I spied a Covert walled and roofed with sods--
      A miniature; belike some Shepherd-boy,
      Who might have found a nothing-doing hour
      Heavier than work, raised it: within that hut
      We might have made a kindly bed of heath,
      And thankfully there rested side by side
      Wrapped in our cloaks, and, with recruited strength,
      Have hailed the morning sun. But cheerily, Father,--
      That staff of yours, I could almost have heart
      To fling't away from you: you make no use
      Of me, or of my strength;--come, let me feel
      That you do press upon me. There--indeed
      You are quite exhausted. Let us rest awhile
      On this green bank. [He sits down.
        HER. (after some time). Idonea, you are silent,
      And I divine the cause.
        IDON. Do not reproach me:
      I pondered patiently your wish and will
      When I gave way to your request; and now,
      When I behold the ruins of that face,
      Those eyeballs dark--dark beyond hope of light,
      And think that they were blasted for my sake,
      The name of Marmaduke is blown away:
      Father, I would not change that sacred feeling
      For all this world can give.
        HER. Nay, be composed:
      Few minutes gone a faintness overspread
      My frame, and I bethought me of two things
      I ne'er had heart to separate---my grave,
      And thee, my Child!
        IDON. Believe me, honoured Sire!
      'Tis weariness that breeds these gloomy fancies,
      And you mistake the cause: you hear the woods
      Resound with music, could you see the sun,
      And look upon the pleasant face of Nature----
        HER. I comprehend thee--I should be as cheerful
      As if we two were twins; two songsters bred
      In the same nest, my spring-time one with thine.
      My fancies, fancies if they be, are such
      As come, dear Child! from a far deeper source
      Than bodily weariness. While here we sit
      I feel my strength returning.--The bequest
      Of thy kind Patroness, which to receive
      We have thus far adventured, will suffice
      To save thee from the extreme of penury;
      But when thy Father must lie down and die,
      How wilt thou stand alone?
        IDON. Is he not strong?
      Is he not valiant?
        HER. Am I then so soon
      Forgotten? have my warnings passed so quickly
      Out of thy mind? My dear, my only, Child;
      Thou wouldst be leaning on a broker reed--
      This Marmaduke--
        IDON. O could you hear his voice:
      Alas! you do not know him. He is one
      (I wot not what ill tongue has wronged him with you)
      All gentleness and love. His face bespeaks
      A deep and simple meekness: and that Soul,
      Which with the motion of a virtuous act
      Flashes a look of terror upon guilt,
      Is, after conflict, quiet as the ocean,
      By a miraculous finger, stilled at once.
        HER. Unhappy Woman!
        IDON. Nay, it was my duty
      Thus much to speak; but think not I forget--
      Dear Father! how 'could' I forget and live--
      You and the story of that doleful night
      When, Antioch blazing to her topmost towers,
      You rushed into the murderous flames, returned
      Blind as the grave, but, as you oft have told me,
      Clasping your infant Daughter to your heart.
        HER. Thy Mother too!--scarce had I gained the door,
      I caught her voice; she threw herself upon me,
      I felt thy infant brother in her arms;
      She saw my blasted face--a tide of soldiers
      That instant rushed between us, and I heard
      Her last death-shriek, distinct among a thousand.
        IDON. Nay, Father, stop not; let me hear it all.
        HER. Dear Daughter! precious relic of that time--
      For my old age, it doth remain with thee
      To make it what thou wilt. Thou hast been told,
      That when, on our return from Palestine,
      I found how my domains had been usurped,
      I took thee in my arms, and we began
      Our wanderings together. Providence
      At length conducted us to Rossland,--there,
      Our melancholy story moved a Stranger
      To take thee to her home--and for myself
      Soon after, the good Abbot of St. Cuthbert's
      Supplied my helplessness with food and raiment,
      And, as thou know'st, gave me that humble Cot
      Where now we dwell.--For many years I bore
      Thy absence, till old age and fresh infirmities
      Exacted thy return, and our reunion.
      I did not think that, during that long absence,
      My Child, forgetful of the name of Herbert,
      Had given her love to a wild Freebooter,
      Who here, upon the borders of the Tweed,
      Doth prey alike on two distracted Countries,
      Traitor to both.
        IDON. Oh, could you hear his voice!
      I will not call on Heaven to vouch for me,
      But let this kiss speak what is in my heart.

      Enter a Peasant.

        PEA. Good morrow, Strangers! If you want a Guide,
      Let me have leave to serve you!
        IDON. My Companion
      Hath need of rest; the sight of Hut or Hostel
      Would be most welcome.
        PEA. Yon white hawthorn gained,
      You will look down into a dell, and there
      Will see an ash from which a sign-board hangs;
      The house is hidden by the shade. Old Man,
      You seem worn out with travel--shall I support you?
        HER. I thank you; but, a resting-place so near,
      'Twere wrong to trouble you.
        PEA. God speed you both.
      [Exit Peasant.
        HER. Idonea, we must part. Be not alarmed--
      'Tis but for a few days--a thought has struck me.
        IDON. That I should leave you at this house, and thence
      Proceed alone. It shall be so; for strength
      Would fail you ere our journey's end be reached.
      [Exit HERBERT supported by IDONEA.

      Re-enter MARMADUKE and OSWALD.

        MAR. This instant will we stop him----
        OSW. Be not hasty,
      For, sometimes, in despite of my conviction,
      He tempted me to think the Story true;
      'Tis plain he loves the Maid, and what he said
      That savoured of aversion to thy name
      Appeared the genuine colour of his soul--
      Anxiety lest mischief should befal her
      After his death.
        MAR. I have been much deceived.
        OSW. But sure he loves the Maiden, and never love
      Could find delight to nurse itself so strangely,
      Thus to torment her with 'inventions'!--death--
      There must be truth in this.
        MAR. Truth in his story!
      He must have felt it then, known what it was,
      And in such wise to rack her gentle heart
      Had been a tenfold cruelty.
        OSW. Strange pleasures
      Do we poor mortals cater for ourselves!
      To see him thus provoke her tenderness
      With tales of weakness and infirmity!
      I'd wager on his life for twenty years.
        MAR. We will not waste an hour in such a cause.
        OSW. Why, this is noble! shake her off at once.
        MAR. Her virtues are his instruments--A Man
      Who has so practised on the world's cold sense,
      May well deceive his Child--what! leave her thus,
      A prey to a deceiver?--no--no--no--
      'Tis but a word and then----
        OSW. Something is here
      More than we see, or whence this strong aversion?
      Marmaduke! I suspect unworthy tales
      Have reached his ear--you have had enemies.
        MAR. Enemies!--of his own coinage.
        OSW. That may be,
      But wherefore slight protection such as you
      Have power to yield? perhaps he looks elsewhere.--
      I am perplexed.
        MAR. What hast thou heard or seen?
        OSW. No--no--the thing stands clear of mystery;
      (As you have said) he coins himself the slander
      With which he taints her ear;--for a plain reason;
      He dreads the presence of a virtuous man
      Like you; he knows your eye would search his heart,
      Your justice stamp upon his evil deeds
      The punishment they merit. All is plain:
      It cannot be------
        MAR. What cannot be?
        OSW. Yet that a Father
      Should in his love admit no rivalship,
      And torture thus the heart of his own Child----
        MAR. Nay, you abuse my friendship!
        OSW. Heaven forbid!--
      There was a circumstance, trifling indeed--
      It struck me at the time--yet I believe
      I never should have thought of it again
      But for the scene which we by chance have witnessed.
        MAR. What is your meaning?
        OSW. Two days gone I saw,
      Though at a distance and he was disguised,
      Hovering round Herbert's door, a man whose figure
      Resembled much that cold voluptuary,
      The villain, Clifford. He hates you, and he knows
      Where he can stab you deepest.
        MAR. Clifford never
      Would stoop to skulk about a Cottage door--
      It could not be.
        OSW. And yet I now remember,
      That, when your praise was warm upon my tongue,
      And the blind Man was told how you had rescued
      A maiden from the ruffian violence
      Of this same Clifford, he became impatient
      And would not hear me.
        MAR. No--it cannot be--
      I dare not trust myself with such a thought--
      Yet whence this strange aversion? You are a man
      Not used to rash conjectures----
        OSW. If you deem it
      A thing worth further notice, we must act
      With caution, sift the matter artfully.
      [Exeunt MARMADUKE and OSWALD.

      SCENE--The door of the Hostel.
      HERBERT, IDONEA, and Host.

        HER. (seated). As I am dear to you, remember, Child!
      This last request.
        IDON. You know me, Sire; farewell!
        HER. And are you going then? Come, come, Idonea,
      We must not part,--I have measured many a league
      When these old limbs had need of rest,--and now
      I will not play the sluggard.
        IDON. Nay, sit down.
      [Turning to Host.
      Good Host, such tendance as you would expect
      From your own Children, if yourself were sick,
      Let this old Man find at your hands; poor Leader,
      [Looking at the dog.
      We soon shall meet again. If thou neglect
      This charge of thine, then ill befall thee!--Look,
      The little fool is loth to stay behind.
      Sir Host! by all the love you bear to courtesy,
      Take care of him, and feed the truant well.
        HOST. Fear not, I will obey you;--but One so young,
      And One so fair, it goes against my heart
      That you should travel unattended, Lady!--
      I have a palfrey and a groom: the lad
      Shall squire you, (would it not be better, Sir?)
      And for less fee than I would let him run
      For any lady I have seen this twelvemonth.
        IDON. You know, Sir, I have been too long your guard
      Not to have learnt to laugh at little fears.
      Why, if a wolf should leap from out a thicket,
      A look of mine would send him scouring back,
      Unless I differ from the thing I am
      When you are by my side.
        HER. Idonea, wolves
      Are not the enemies that move my fears.
        IDON. No more, I pray, of this. Three days at farthest
      Will bring me back--protect him, Saints--farewell!
      [Exit IDONEA.
        HOST. 'Tis never drought with us--St. Cuthbert and his Pilgrims,
      Thanks to them, are to us a stream of comfort:
      Pity the Maiden did not wait a while;
      She could not, Sir, have failed of company.
        HER. Now she is gone, I fain would call her back.
        HOST. (calling). Holla!
        HER. No, no, the business must be done.--
      What means this riotous noise?
        HOST. The villagers
      Are flocking in--a wedding festival--
      That's all--God save you, Sir.

      Enter OSWALD.

        OSW. Ha! as I live,
      The Baron Herbert.
        HOST. Mercy, the Baron Herbert!
        OSW. So far into your journey! on my life,
      You are a lusty Traveller. But how fare you?
        HER. Well as the wreck I am permits. And you, Sir?
        OSW. I do not see Idonea.
        HER. Dutiful Girl,
      She is gone before, to spare my weariness.
      But what has brought you hither?
        OSW. A slight affair,
      That will be soon despatched.
        HER. Did Marmaduke
      Receive that letter?
        OSW. Be at peace.--The tie
      Is broken, you will hear no more of 'him'.
        HER. This is true comfort, thanks a thousand times!--
      That noise!--would I had gone with her as far
      As the Lord Clifford's Castle: I have heard
      That, in his milder moods, he has expressed
      Compassion for me. His influence is great
      With Henry, our good King;--the Baron might
      Have heard my suit, and urged my plea at Court.
      No matter--he's a dangerous Man.--That noise!--
      'Tis too disorderly for sleep or rest.
      Idonea would have fears for me,--the Convent
      Will give me quiet lodging. You have a boy, good Host,
      And he must lead me back.
        OSW. You are most lucky;
      I have been waiting in the wood hard by
      For a companion--here he comes; our journey

      Enter MARMADUKE.

      Lies on your way; accept us as your Guides.
        HER. Alas! I creep so slowly.
        OSW. Never fear;
      We'll not complain of that.
        HER. My limbs are stiff
      And need repose. Could you but wait an hour?
        OSW. Most willingly!--Come, let me lead you in,
      And, while you take your rest, think not of us;
      We'll stroll into the wood; lean on my arm.
      [Conducts HERBERT into the house. Exit MARMADUKE.

      Enter Villagers.

        OSW. (to himself coming out of the Hostel).
      I have prepared a most apt Instrument--
      The Vagrant must, no doubt, be loitering somewhere
      About this ground; she hath a tongue well skilled,
      By mingling natural matter of her own
      With all the daring fictions I have taught her,
      To win belief, such as my plot requires.
      [Exit OSWALD.

      Enter more Villagers, a Musician among them.

        HOST. (to them). Into the court, my Friend, and perch yourself
      Aloft upon the elm-tree. Pretty Maids,
      Garlands and flowers, and cakes and merry thoughts,
      Are here, to send the sun into the west
      More speedily than you belike would wish.

      SCENE changes to the Wood adjoining the Hostel--MARMADUKE and
        OSWALD entering.

        MAR. I would fain hope that we deceive ourselves:
      When first I saw him sitting there, alone,
      It struck upon my heart I know not how.
        OSW. To-day will clear up all.--You marked a Cottage,
      That ragged Dwelling, close beneath a rock
      By the brook-side: it is the abode of One,
      A Maiden innocent till ensnared by Clifford,
      Who soon grew weary of her; but, alas!
      What she had seen and suffered turned her brain.
      Cast off by her Betrayer, she dwells alone,
      Nor moves her hands to any needful work:
      She eats her food which every day the peasants
      Bring to her hut; and so the Wretch has lived
      Ten years; and no one ever heard her voice;
      But every night at the first stroke of twelve
      She quits her house, and, in the neighbouring Churchyard
      Upon the self-same spot, in rain or storm,
      She paces out the hour 'twixt twelve and one--
      She paces round and round an Infant's grave,
      And in the churchyard sod her feet have worn
      A hollow ring; they say it is knee-deep----
      Ah! what is here?
      [A female Beggar rises up, rubbing her eyes as if in sleep--a
       Child in her arms.
        BEG. Oh! Gentlemen, I thank you;
      I've had the saddest dream that ever troubled
      The heart of living creature.--My poor Babe
      Was crying, as I thought, crying for bread
      When I had none to give him; whereupon,
      I put a slip of foxglove in his hand,
      Which pleased him so, that he was hushed at once:
      When, into one of those same spotted bells
      A bee came darting, which the Child with joy
      Imprisoned there, and held it to his ear,
      And suddenly grew black, as he would die.
        MAR. We have no time for this, my babbling Gossip;
      Here's what will comfort you.
      [Gives her money.
        BEG. The Saints reward you
      For this good deed!--Well, Sirs, this passed away;
      And afterwards I fancied, a strange dog,
      Trotting alone along the beaten road,
      Came to my child as by my side he slept
      And, fondling, licked his face, then on a sudden
      Snapped fierce to make a morsel of his head:
      But here he is, [kissing the Child] it must have been a dream.
        OSW. When next inclined to sleep, take my advice,
      And put your head, good Woman, under cover.
        BEG. Oh, sir, you would not talk thus, if you knew
      What life is this of ours, how sleep will master
      The weary-worn.--You gentlefolk have got
      Warm chambers to your wish. I'd rather be
      A stone than what I am.--But two nights gone,
      The darkness overtook me--wind and rain
      Beat hard upon my head--and yet I saw
      A glow-worm, through the covert of the furze,
      Shine calmly as if nothing ailed the sky:
      At which I half accused the God in Heaven.--
      You must forgive me.
        OSW. Ay, and if you think
      The Fairies are to blame, and you should chide
      Your favourite saint--no matter--this good day
      Has made amends.
        BEG. Thanks to you both; but, O sir!
      How would you like to travel on whole hours
      As I have done, my eyes upon the ground,
      Expecting still, I knew not how, to find
      A piece of money glittering through the dust.
        MAR. This woman is a prater. Pray, good Lady!
      Do you tell fortunes?
        BEG. Oh Sir, you are like the rest.
      This Little-one--it cuts me to the heart--
      Well! they might turn a beggar from their doors,
      But there are Mothers who can see the Babe
      Here at my breast, and ask me where I bought it:
      This they can do, and look upon my face--
      But you, Sir, should be kinder.
        MAR. Come hither, Fathers,
      And learn what nature is from this poor Wretch!
        BEG. Ay, Sir, there's nobody that feels for us.
      Why now--but yesterday I overtook
      A blind old Greybeard and accosted him,
      I' th' name of all the Saints, and by the Mass
      He should have used me better!--Charity!
      If you can melt a rock, he is your man;
      But I'll be even with him--here again
      Have I been waiting for him.
        OSW. Well, but softly,
      Who is it that hath wronged you?
        BEG. Mark you me;
      I'll point him out;--a Maiden is his guide,
      Lovely as Spring's first rose; a little dog,
      Tied by a woollen cord, moves on before
      With look as sad as he were dumb; the cur,
      I owe him no ill will, but in good sooth
      He does his Master credit.
        MAR. As I live,
      'Tis Herbert and no other!
        BEG. 'Tis a feast to see him,
      Lank as a ghost and tall, his shoulders bent,
      And long beard white with age--yet evermore,
      As if he were the only Saint on earth,
      He turns his face to heaven.
        OSW. But why so violent
      Against this venerable Man?
        BEG. I'll tell you:
      He has the very hardest heart on earth;
      I had as lief turn to the Friar's school
      And knock for entrance, in mid holiday.
        MAR. But to your story.
        BEG. I was saying, Sir--
      Well!--he has often spurned me like a toad,
      But yesterday was worse than all;--at last
      I overtook him, Sirs, my Babe and I,
      And begged a little aid for charity:
      But he was snappish as a cottage cur.
      Well then, says I--I'll out with it; at which
      I cast a look upon the Girl, and felt
      As if my heart would burst; and so I left him.
        OSW. I think, good Woman, you are the very person
      Whom, but some few days past, I saw in Eskdale,
      At Herbert's door.
        BEG. Ay; and if truth were known
      I have good business there.
        OSW. I met you at the threshold,
      And he seemed angry.
        BEG. Angry! well he might;
      And long as I can stir I'll dog him.--Yesterday,
      To serve me so, and knowing that he owes
      The best of all he has to me and mine.
      But 'tis all over now.--That good old Lady
      Has left a power of riches; and, I say it,
      If there's a lawyer in the land, the knave
      Shall give me half.
        OSW. What's this?--I fear, good Woman,
      You have been insolent.
        BEG. And there's the Baron,
      I spied him skulking in his peasant's dress.
        OSW. How say you? in disguise?--
        MAR. But what's your business
      With Herbert or his Daughter?
        BEG. Daughter! truly--
      But how's the day?--I fear, my little Boy,
      We've overslept ourselves.--Sirs, have you seen him?
      [Offers to go.
        MAR. I must have more of this;--you shall not stir
      An inch, till I am answered. Know you aught
      That doth concern this Herbert?
        BEG. You are provoked,
      And will misuse me, Sir?
        MAR. No trifling, Woman!
        OSW. You are as safe as in a sanctuary;
      Speak.
        MAR. Speak!
        BEG. He is a most hard-hearted Man,
        MAR. Your life is at my mercy.
        BEG. Do not harm me,
      And I will tell you all!--You know not, Sir,
      What strong temptations press upon the Poor.
        OSW. Speak out.
        BEG. Oh Sir, I've been a wicked Woman.
        OSW. Nay, but speak out!
        BEG. He flattered me, and said
      What harvest it would bring us both; and so,
      I parted with the Child.
        MAR. Parted with whom?
        BEG. Idonea, as he calls her; but the Girl
      Is mine.
        MAR. Yours, Woman! are you Herbert's wife?
        BEG. Wife, Sir! his wife--not I; my husband, Sir,
      Was of Kirkoswald---many a snowy winter
      We've weathered out together. My poor Gilfred!
      He has been two years in his grave.
        MAR. Enough.
        OSW. We've solved the riddle--Miscreant!
        MAR. Do you,
      Good Dame, repair to Liddesdale and wait
      For my return; be sure you shall have justice.
        OSW. A lucky woman! go, you have done good service. [Aside.
        MAR. (to himself). Eternal praises on the power that saved
            her!--
        OSW. (gives her money). Here's for your little boy--and when you
            christen him
      I'll be his Godfather.
        BEG. Oh Sir, you are merry with me.
      In grange or farm this Hundred scarcely owns
      A dog that does not know me.--These good Folks,
      For love of God, I must not pass their doors;
      But I'll be back with my best speed: for you--
      God bless and thank you both, my gentle Masters.
      [Exit Beggar.
        MAR. (to himself). The cruel Viper!--Poor devoted Maid,
      Now I 'do' love thee.
        OSW. I am thunderstruck.
        MAR. Where is she--holla!
      [Calling to the Beggar, who returns; he looks at her stedfastly.
      You are Idonea's mother?--
      Nay, be not terrified--it does me good
      To look upon you.
        OSW. (interrupting). In a peasant's dress
      You saw, who was it?
        BEG. Nay, I dare not speak;
      He is a man, if it should come to his ears
      I never shall be heard of more.
        OSW. Lord Clifford?
        BEG. What can I do? believe me, gentle Sirs,
      I love her, though I dare not call her daughter.
        OSW. Lord Clifford--did you see him talk with Herbert?
        BEG. Yes, to my sorrow--under the great oak
      At Herbert's door--and when he stood beside
      The blind Man--at the silent Girl he looked
      With such a look--it makes me tremble, Sir,
      To think of it.
        OSW. Enough! you may depart.
        MAR. (to himself). Father!--to God himself we cannot give
      A holier name; and, under such a mask,
      To lead a Spirit, spotless as the blessed,
      To that abhorred den of brutish vice!--
      Oswald, the firm foundation of my life
      Is going from under me; these strange discoveries--
      Looked at from every point of fear or hope,
      Duty, or love--involve, I feel, my ruin.