Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798)

THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

FOSTER-MOTHERI never saw the man whom you describe.MARIA'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarlyAs mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.FOSTER-MOTHERNow blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady,As often as I think of those dear timesWhen you two little ones would stand at eveOn each side of my chair, and make me learnAll you had learnt in the day; and how to talkIn gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you —'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been.MARIAO my dear Mother! this strange man has left meTroubled with wilder fancies, than the moonBreeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,Till lost in inward vision, with wet eyeShe gazes idly! – But that entrance, Mother!FOSTER-MOTHERCan no one hear? It is a perilous tale!MARIANo one.FOSTER-MOTHER        My husband's father told it me,Poor old Leoni! – Angels rest his soul!He was a woodman, and could fell and sawWith lusty arm. You know that huge round beamWhich props the hanging wall of the old chapel?Beneath that tree, while yet it was a treeHe found a baby wrapt in mosses, linedWith thistle-beards, and such small locks of woolAs hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost.And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,A pretty boy, but most unteachable —And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,And whistled, as he were a bird himself:And all the autumn 'twas his only playTo get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant themWith earth and water, on the stumps of trees.A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,A grey-haired man – he loved this little boy,The boy loved him – and, when the Friar taught him,He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.So he became a very learned youth.But Oh! poor wretch! – he read, and read, and read,'Till his brain turned – and ere his twentieth year,He had unlawful thoughts of many things:And though he prayed, he never loved to prayWith holy men, nor in a holy place —But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.And once, as by the north side of the ChapelThey stood together, chained in deep discourse,The earth heaved under them with such a groan,That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallenRight on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;A fever seized him, and he made confessionOf all the heretical and lawless talkWhich brought this judgment: so the youth was seizedAnd cast into that hole. My husband's fatherSobbed like a child – it almost broke his heart:And once as he was working in the cellar,He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,Who sung a doleful song about green fields,How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,To hunt for food, and be a naked man,And wander up and down at liberty.He always doted on the youth, and nowHis love grew desperate; and defying death,He made that cunning entrance I described:And the young man escaped.MARIA                           'Tis a sweet tale:Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. —And what became of him?FOSTER-MOTHER                        He went on ship-boardWith those bold voyagers, who made discoveryOf golden lands. Leoni's younger brotherWent likewise, and when he returned to Spain,He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,Soon after they arrived in that new world,In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,And all alone, set sail by silent moonlightUp a great river, great as any sea,And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,He lived and died among the savage men.

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

– Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree standsFar from all human dwelling: what if hereNo sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,That break against the shore, shall lull thy mindBy one soft impulse saved from vacancy.                                       – Who he wasThat piled these stones, and with the mossy sodFirst covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,I well remember. – He was one who own'dNo common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd,And big with lofty views, he to the worldWent forth, pure in his heart, against the taintOf dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,And scorn, against all enemies prepared,All but neglect: and so, his spirit dampedAt once, with rash disdain he turned away,And with the food of pride sustained his soulIn solitude. – Stranger! these gloomy boughsHad 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 juniper,And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,Fixing his downward eye, he many an hourA morbid pleasure nourished, tracing hereAn emblem of his own unfruitful life:And lifting up his head, he then would gazeOn the more distant scene; how lovely 'tisThou seest, and he would gaze till it becameFar lovelier, and his heart could not sustainThe beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,Warm from the labours of benevolence,The world, and man himself, appeared a sceneOf kindred loveliness: then he would sighWith mournful joy, to think that others feltWhat he must never feel: and so, lost man!On visionary views would fancy feed,Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep valeHe died, this seat his only monument.If thou be one whose heart the holy formsOf young imagination have kept pure,Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; that he, who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used; that thought with himIs in its infancy. The man, whose eyeIs ever on himself, doth look on one,The least of nature's works, one who might moveThe wise man to that scorn which wisdom holdsUnlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,True dignity abides with him aloneWho, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himself,In lowliness of heart.

THE NIGHTINGALE;

A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,But hear no murmuring: it flows silentlyO'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,"Most musical, most melancholy" 1 Bird!A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!In nature there is nothing melancholy.– But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'dWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper or neglected love,(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himselfAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrows) he and such as heFirst nam'd these notes a melancholy strain;And many a poet echoes the conceit,Poet, who hath been building up the rhymeWhen he had better far have stretch'd his limbsBeside a brook in mossy forest-dellBy sun or moonlight, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in nature's immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all nature lovelier, and itselfBe lov'd, like nature! – But 'twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poeticalWho lose the deep'ning twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature's sweet voices always full of loveAnd joyance! 'Tis the merry NightingaleThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful, that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music! And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle hugeWhich the great lord inhabits not: and soThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.But never elsewhere in one place I knewSo many Nightingales: and far and nearIn wood and thicket over the wide groveThey answer and provoke each other's songs —With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jugAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all —Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd,You may perchance behold them on the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shadeLights up her love-torch.                          A most gentle maidWho dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the Castle, and at latest eve,(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicateTo something more than nature in the grove)Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence: till the MoonEmerging, hath awaken'd earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful BirdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,As if one quick and sudden Gale had sweptAn hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'dMany a Nightingale perch giddilyOn blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton song,Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!We have been loitering long and pleasantly,And now for our dear homes. – That strain again!Full fain it would delay me! – My dear Babe,Who, capable of no articulate sound,Mars all things with his imitative lisp,How he would place his hand beside his ear,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature's playmate. He knows wellThe evening star: and once when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)I hurried with him to our orchard plot,And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at onceSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tearsDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well —It is a father's tale. But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate Joy! Once more farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

THE FEMALE VAGRANT

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,(The Woman thus her artless story told)One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring floodSupplied, to him were more than mines of gold.Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shoreMy father's nets, or watched, when from the foldHigh o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store,A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar.My father was a good and pious man,An honest man by honest parents bred,And I believe that, soon as I beganTo 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.Can I forget what charms did once adornMy garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.The staff I yet remember which upboreThe bending body of my active sire;His seat beneath the honeyed sycamoreWhen the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;When market-morning came, the neat attireWith which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.The suns of twenty summers danced along, —Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:Then rose a mansion proud our woods among,And cottage after cottage owned its sway,No joy to see a neighbouring house, or strayThrough pastures not his own, the master took;My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;He loved his old hereditary nook,And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.But, when he had refused the proffered gold,To cruel injuries he became a prey,Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:His troubles grew upon him day by day,Till all his substance fell into decay.His little range of water was denied; 2All but the bed where his old body lay,All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.Can I forget that 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?Till 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,Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!There was a youth whom I had loved so long,That when I loved him not I cannot say.'Mid the green mountains many and many a songWe two had sung, like little birds in May.When we began to tire of childish playWe 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.His father said, that to a distant townHe must repair, to ply the artist's 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 saidHe well could love in grief: his faith he kept;And in a quiet home once more my father slept.Four years each day with daily bread was blest,By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,And knew not why. My happy father diedWhen sad distress reduced the children's meal:Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hideThe empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.'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 drumBeat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.My husband's arms now only served to strainMe 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.There foul neglect for months and months we bore,Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.Green fields before us and our native shore,By fever, from polluted air incurred,Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd,That happier days we never more must view:The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew,But from delay the summer calms were past.On as we drove, the equinoctial deepRan mountains – high before the howling blaft.We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleepOf them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep,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.Oh! dreadful price of being to resignAll that is dear in being! better farIn Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,Better our dying bodies to obtrude,Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,Protract a curst existence, with the broodThat lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.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 thy brain unsettle even to hear.All perished – all, in one remorseless year,Husband and children! one by one, by swordAnd ravenous plague, all perished: every tearDried up, despairing, desolate, on boardA British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.Peaceful as some immeasurable plainBy the first beams of dawning light impress'd,In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main.The very ocean has its hour of rest,That comes not to the human mourner's breast.Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,A heavenly silence did the waves invest;I looked and looked along the silent air,Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps!And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke,Where looks inhuman dwelt on 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 hostDriven by the bomb's incessant thunder-strokeTo loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd,Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,While like a sea the storming army came,And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape,And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and RapeSeized their joint prey, the mother and the child!But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!– For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.Some mighty gulph of separation past,I seemed transported to another world: —A thought resigned with pain, when from the mastThe impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd,And whistling, called the wind that hardly curledThe silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,And from all hope I was forever hurled.For me – farthest from earthly port to roamWas best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thoughtAt last my feet a resting-place had found:Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,)Roaming the illimitable waters round;Here watch, of every human friend disowned,All day, my ready tomb the ocean-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.By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock;Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cockFrom the cross timber of an out-house hung;How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock!At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.So passed another day, and so the third:Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd,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;Dizzy my brain, with interruption shortOf hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.Recovery came with food: but still, my brainWas weak, nor of the past had memory.I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complainOf 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 careless cruelty,Fretting the fever round the languid heart,And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.These things just served to stir the torpid sense,Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thenceDismissed, 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 wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.My heart is touched to think that men like these,The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!And their long holiday that feared not grief,For all belonged to all, and each was chief.No plough their sinews strained; on grating roadNo wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheafIn every vale for their delight was stowed:For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed.Semblance, with straw and pauniered ass, they madeOf potters wandering on from door to door:But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,And other joys my fancy to allure;The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moorIn barn uplighted, and companions boonWell met from far with revelry secure,In depth of forest glade, when jocund JuneRolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.But ill it suited me, in journey darkO'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark.Or hang on tiptoe 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.What could I do, unaided and unblest?Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:And kindred of dead husband are at bestSmall help, and, after marriage such as mine,With little kindness would to me incline.Ill was I then for toil or service fit:With tears whose course no effort could confine,By high-way side forgetful would I sitWhole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.I lived upon the mercy of the fields,And oft of cruelty the sky accused;On hazard, or what general bounty yields,Now coldly given, now utterly refused,The fields I for my bed have often used:But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruthIs, that I have my inner self abused,Foregone the home delight of constant truth,And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,In tears, the sun towards that country tendWhere my poor heart lost all its fortitude:And now across this moor my steps I bend —Oh! tell me whither – for no earthly friendHave I. – She ceased, and weeping turned away,As if because her tale was at an endShe wept; – because she had no more to sayOf that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?What is't that ails young Harry Gill?That evermore his teeth they chatter,Chatter, chatter, chatter still.Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;He has a blanket on his back,And coats enough to smother nine.In March, December, and in July,"Tis all the same with Harry Gill;The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.At night, at morning, and at noon,'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Young Harry was a lusty drover,And who so stout of limb as he?His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,His voice was like the voice of three.Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad;And any man who pass'd her door,Might see how poor a hut she had.All day she spun in her poor dwelling,And then her three hours' work at night!Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,It would not pay for candle-light.– This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,Her hut was on a cold hill-side,And in that country coals are dear,For they come far by wind and tide.By the same fire to boil their pottage,Two poor old dames, as I have known,Will often live in one small cottage,But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.'Twas well enough when summer came,The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,Then at her door the canty dameWould sit, as any linnet gay.But when the ice our streams did fetter,Oh! then how her old bones would shake!You would have said, if you had met her,'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.Her evenings then were dull and dead;Sad case it was, as you may think,For very cold to go to bed,And then for cold not sleep a wink.Oh joy for her! when e'er in winterThe winds at night had made a rout,And scatter'd many a lusty splinter,And many a rotten bough about.Yet never had she, well or sick,As every man who knew her says,A pile before-hand, wood or stick,Enough to warm her for three days.Now, when the frost was past enduring,And made her poor old bones to ache,Could any thing be more alluring,Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?And now and then, it must be said,When her old bones were cold and chill,She left her fire, or left her bed,To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.Now Harry he had long suspectedThis trespass of old Goody Blake,And vow'd that she should be detected,And he on her would vengeance take.And oft from his warm fire he'd go,And to the fields his road would take,And there, at night, in frost and snow,He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.And once, behind a rick of barley,Thus looking out did Harry stand;The moon was full and shining clearly,And crisp with frost the stubble-land.– He hears a noise – he's all awake —Again? – on tip-toe down the hillHe softly creeps – 'Tis Goody Blake,She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.Right glad was he when he beheld her:Stick after stick did Goody pull,He stood behind a bush of elder,Till she had filled her apron full.When with her load she turned about,The bye-road back again to take,He started forward with a shout,And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.And fiercely by the arm he took her,And by the arm he held her fast,And fiercely by the arm he shook her,And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"Then Goody, who had nothing said,Her bundle from her lap let fall;And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'dTo God that is the judge of all.She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing,While Harry held her by the arm —"God! who art never out of hearing,"O may he never more be warm!"The cold, cold moon above her head,Thus on her knees did Goody pray,Young Harry heard what she had said,And icy-cold he turned away.He went complaining all the morrowThat he was cold and very chill:His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,Alas! that day for Harry Gill!That day he wore a riding-coat,But not a whit the warmer he:Another was on Thursday brought,And ere the Sabbath he had three.'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,And blankets were about him pinn'd;Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,Like a loose casement in the wind.And Harry's flesh it fell away;And all who see him say 'tis plain,That, live as long as live he may,He never will be warm again.No word to any man he utters,A-bed or up, to young or old;But ever to himself he mutters,"Poor Harry Gill is very cold."A-bed or up, by night or day;His teeth they chatter, chatter still.Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.