Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2

11. TO THE CUCKOO

  O blithe New-comer! I have heard,  I hear thee and rejoice:  O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,  Or but a wandering Voice?  While I am lying on the grass,  I hear thy restless shout:  From hill to hill it seems to pass,  About, and all about!  To me, no Babbler with a tale  Of sunshine and of flowers,  Thou tellest, Cuckoo! in the vale  Of visionary hours.  Thrice welcome, Darling of the Spring!  Even yet thou art to me  No Bird; but an invisible Thing,  A voice, a mystery.  The same whom in my School-boy days  I listen'd to; that Cry  Which made me look a thousand ways;  In bush, and tree, and sky.  To seek thee did I often rove  Through woods and on the green;  And thou wert still a hope, a love;  Still long'd for, never seen!  And I can listen to thee yet;  Can lie upon the plain.  And listen, till I do beget  That golden time again.  O blessed Bird! the earth we pace  Again appears to be  An unsubstantial, faery place;  That is fit home for Thee!

12. TO A BUTTERFLY

  I've watch'd you now a full half hour,  Self-pois'd upon that yellow flower;  And, little Butterfly! indeed  I know not if you sleep, or feed.  How motionless! not frozen seas  More motionless! and then  What joy awaits you, when the breeze  Hath found you out among the trees,      And calls you forth again!  This plot of Orchard-ground is ours;  My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;  Stop here whenever you are weary,  And rest as in a sanctuary!  Come often to us, fear no wrong;  Sit near us on the bough!  We'll talk of sunshine and of song;  And summer days, when we were young,  Sweet childish days, that were as long      As twenty days are now!13  It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown,  And is descending on his embassy;  Nor Traveller gone from Earth the Heavens to espy!  'Tis Hesperus – there he stands with glittering crown,  First admonition that the sun is down!  For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;  A few are near him still – and now the sky,  He hath it to himself – 'tis all his own.  O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought  Within me when I recognised thy light;  A moment I was startled at the sight:  And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought  That I might step beyond my natural race  As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace  Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,  My Soul, an Apparition in the place,  Tread there, with steps that no one shall reprove!

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY; WITH OTHER POEMS

THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY

(A Tale told by the Fire-side.)  Now we are tired of boisterous joy,  We've romp'd enough, my little Boy!  Jane hangs her head upon my breast,  And you shall bring your Stool and rest,      This corner is your own.  There! take your seat, and let me see  That you can listen quietly;  And as I promised I will tell  That strange adventure which befel      A poor blind Highland Boy.  A Highland Boy! – why call him so?  Because, my Darlings, ye must know,  In land where many a mountain towers,  Far higher hills than these of ours!        He from his birth had liv'd.  He ne'er had seen one earthly sight;  The sun, the day; the stars, the night;  Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,  Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,        Or woman, man, or child.  And yet he neither drooped nor pined,  Nor had a melancholy mind;  For God took pity on the Boy,  And was his friend; and gave him joy        Of which we nothing know.  His Mother, too, no doubt, above  Her other Children him did love:  For, was she here, or was she there,  She thought of him with constant care,      And more than Mother's love.  And proud she was of heart, when clad  In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,  And bonnet with a feather gay,  To Kirk he on the sabbath day      Went hand in hand with her.  A Dog, too, had he; not for need,  But one to play with and to feed;  Which would have led him, if bereft  Of company or friends, and left      Without a better guide.  And then the bagpipes he could blow;  And thus from house to house would go,  And all were pleas'd to hear and see;  For none made sweeter melody        Than did the poor blind Boy.  Yet he had many a restless dream;  Both when he heard the Eagles scream,  And when he heard the torrents roar,  And heard the water beat the shore        Near which their Cottage stood.  Beside a lake their Cottage stood,  Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;  But one of mighty size, and strange;  That, rough or smooth, is full of change,        And stirring in its bed.  For to this Lake, by night and day,  The great Sea-water finds its way  Through long, long windings of the hills;  And drinks up all the pretty rills        And rivers large and strong:  Then hurries back the road it came —  Returns, on errand still the same;  This did it when the earth was new;  And this for evermore will do,        As long as earth shall last.  And, with the coming of the Tide,  Come Boats and Ships, that sweetly ride,  Between the woods and lofty rocks;  And to the Shepherds with their Flocks        Bring tales of distant Lands.  And of those tales, whate'er they were,  The blind Boy always had his share;  Whether of mighty Towns, or Vales  With warmer suns and softer gales,      Or wonders of the Deep.  Yet more it pleased him, more it stirr'd,  When from the water-side he heard  The shouting, and the jolly cheers,  The bustle of the mariners      In stillness or in storm.  But what do his desires avail?  For He must never handle sail;  Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float  In Sailor's ship or Fisher's boat      Upon the rocking waves.  His Mother often thought, and said,  What sin would be upon her head  If she should suffer this: "My Son,  Whate'er you do, leave this undone;        The danger is so great."  Thus lived he by Loch Levin's side  Still sounding with the sounding tide,  And heard the billows leap and dance,  Without a shadow of mischance,        Till he was ten years old.  When one day (and now mark me well,  You soon shall know how this befel)  He's in a vessel of his own,  On the swift water hurrying down        Towards the mighty Sea.  In such a vessel ne'er before  Did human Creature leave the shore:  If this or that way he should stir,  Woe to the poor blind Mariner!      For death will be his doom.  Strong is the current; but be mild,  Ye waves, and spare the helpless Child!  If ye in anger fret or chafe,  A Bee-hive would be ship as safe      As that in which he sails.  But say, what was it? Thought of fear!  Well may ye tremble when ye hear!  – A Household Tub, like one of those  Which women use to wash their clothes,      This carried the blind Boy.  Close to the water he had found  This Vessel, push'd it from dry ground,  Went into it; and, without dread,  Following the fancies in his head,        He paddled up and down.  A while he stood upon his feet;  He felt the motion – took his seat;  And dallied thus, till from the shore  The tide retreating more and more        Had suck'd, and suck'd him in.  And there he is in face of Heaven!  How rapidly the Child is driven!  The fourth part of a mile I ween  He thus had gone, ere he was seen        By any human eye.  But when he was first seen, oh me!  What shrieking and what misery!  For many saw; among the rest  His Mother, she who loved him best,     She saw her poor blind Boy.  But for the Child, the sightless Boy,  It is the triumph of his joy!  The bravest Traveller in balloon,  Mounting as if to reach the moon,      Was never half so bless'd.  And let him, let him go his way,  Alone, and innocent, and gay!  For, if good Angels love to wait  On the forlorn unfortunate,      This Child will take no harm.  But now the passionate lament,  Which from the crowd on shore was sent,  The cries which broke from old and young  In Gaelic, or the English tongue,        Are stifled – all is still.  And quickly with a silent crew  A Boat is ready to pursue;  And from the shore their course they take,  And swiftly down the running Lake        They follow the blind Boy.  With sound the least that can be made  They follow, more and more afraid,  More cautious as they draw more near;  But in his darkness he can hear,        And guesses their intent.  "Lei-gha – Lei-gha" – then did he cry  "Lei-gha – Lei-gha" – most eagerly;  Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,  And what he meant was, "Keep away,        And leave me to myself!"  Alas! and when he felt their hands —  You've often heard of magic Wands,  That with a motion overthrow  A palace of the proudest shew,        Or melt it into air.  So all his dreams, that inward light  With which his soul had shone so bright,  All vanish'd; – 'twas a heartfelt cross  To him, a heavy, bitter loss,        As he had ever known.  But hark! a gratulating voice  With which the very hills rejoice:  'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly  Had watch'd the event, and now can see       That he is safe at last.  And then, when he was brought to land,  Full sure they were a happy band,  Which gathering round did on the banks  Of that great Water give God thanks,       And welcom'd the poor Child.  And in the general joy of heart  The blind Boy's little Dog took part;  He leapt about, and oft did kiss  His master's hands in sign of bliss,       With sound like lamentation.  But most of all, his Mother dear,  She who had fainted with her fear,  Rejoiced when waking she espies  The Child; when she can trust her eyes,        And touches the blind Boy.  She led him home, and wept amain,  When he was in the house again:  Tears flow'd in torrents from her eyes,  She could not blame him, or chastise:        She was too happy far.  Thus, after he had fondly braved  The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;  And, though his fancies had been wild,  Yet he was pleased, and reconciled        To live in peace on shore.

THE GREEN LINNET

  The May is come again: – how sweet  To sit upon my Orchard-seat!  And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,        My last year's Friends together:  My thoughts they all by turns employ;  A whispering Leaf is now my joy,  And then a Bird will be the toy        That doth my fancy tether.  One have I mark'd, the happiest Guest  In all this covert of the blest:  Hail to Thee, far above the rest        In joy of voice and pinion,  Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,  Presiding Spirit here to-day,  Dost lead the revels of the May,        And this is thy dominion.  While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers  Make all one Band of Paramours,  Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,        Art sole in thy employment;  A Life, a Presence like the Air,  Scattering thy gladness without care,  Too bless'd with any one to pair,        Thyself thy own enjoyment.  Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,  That twinkle to the gusty breeze,  Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,        Yet seeming still to hover;  There! where the flutter of his wings  Upon his back and body flings  Shadows and sunny glimmerings,        That cover him all over.  While thus before my eyes he gleams,  A Brother of the Leaves he seems;  When in a moment forth he teems        His little song in gushes:  As if it pleas'd him to disdain  And mock the Form which he did feign,  While he was dancing with the train        Of Leaves among the bushes.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country  Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!  – There is a nest in a green dale,  A harbour and a hold,  Where thou a Wife and Friend, shalt see  Thy own delightful days, and be  A light to young and old.  There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,  As if thy heritage were joy,  And pleasure were thy trade,  Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,  Shalt shew us how divine a thing  A Woman may be made.  Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,  Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,  A melancholy slave  But an old age, alive and bright,  And lovely as a Lapland night,  Shall lead thee to thy grave.  " —Pleasure is spread through the earth  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find."* * * * *      By their floating Mill,      Which lies dead and still,  Behold yon Prisoners three!  The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames;  The Platform is small, but there's room for them all;  And they're dancing merrily.      From the shore come the notes      To their Mill where it floats,  To their House and their Mill tether'd fast;  To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile  They from morning to even take whatever is given; —  And many a blithe day they have past.        In sight of the Spires        All alive with the fires  Of the Sun going down to his rest,  In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,  They dance, – there are three, as jocund as free,  While they dance on the calm river's breast.        Man and Maidens wheel,        They themselves make the Reel,  And their Music's a prey which they seize;  It plays not for them, – what matter! 'tis their's;  And if they had care it has scattered their cares,  While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"        They dance not for me,        Yet mine is their glee!  Thus pleasure is spread through the earth  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,  Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.      The Showers of the Spring      Rouze the Birds and they sing;  If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,  Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,  Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;  They are happy, for that is their right!

STAR GAZERS

  What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;  A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:  Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,  Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.  The Show-man chuses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;  And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;  Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,  And envies him that's looking – what an insight must it be!  Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have           blame,  A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?  Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?  Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?  Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?  Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?  The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,  Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?  Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,  And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?  Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,  And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?  Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude,  Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,  Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie?  No, no, this cannot be – Men thirst for power and majesty!  Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ  Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,  That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,  Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!  Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & pore  Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:  One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied  That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

POWER OF MUSIC

  An Orpheus! An Orpheus! – yes, Faith may grow bold,  And take to herself all the wonders of old; —  Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same,  In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.  His station is there; – and he works on the crowd,  He sways them with harmony merry and loud;  He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim —  Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!  What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!  The weary have life and the hungry have bliss;  The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;  And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.  As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,  So he where he stands is a center of light;  It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,  And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.  That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste —  What matter! he's caught – and his time runs to waste —  The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,  And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net!  The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;  The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; —  If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;  She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!  He stands, back'd by the Wall; – he abates not his din;  His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,  From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!  The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.  O blest are the Hearers and proud be the Hand  Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band;  I am glad for him, blind as he is! – all the while  If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.  That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,  Not an inch of his body is free from delight;  Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!  The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.  There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower  That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour! —  Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,  While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.  Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;  Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:  They are deaf to your murmurs – they care not for you,  Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!

TO THE DAISY

The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume  With little here to do or see  Of things that in the great world be,  Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,      For thou art worthy,  Thou unassuming Common-place  Of Nature, with that homely face,  And yet with something of a grace,      Which Love makes for thee!  Oft do I sit by thee at ease,  And weave a web of similies,  Loose types of Things through all degrees,      Thoughts of thy raising:  And many a fond and idle name  I give to thee, for praise or blame,  As is the humour of the game,      While I am gazing.  A Nun demure of lowly port,  Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court,  In thy simplicity the sport      Of all temptations;  A Queen in crown of rubies drest,  A Starveling in a scanty vest,  Are all, as seem to suit thee best,      Thy appellations.  A little Cyclops, with one eye  Staring to threaten and defy,  That thought comes next – and instantly      The freak is over,  The shape will vanish, and behold!  A silver Shield with boss of gold,  That spreads itself, some Faery bold      In fight to cover.  I see thee glittering from afar; —  And then thou art a pretty Star,  Not quite so fair as many are      In heaven above thee!  Yet, like a star, with glittering crest,  Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; —  May peace come never to his nest,      Who shall reprove thee!  Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,  When all my reveries are past,  I call thee, and to that cleave fast,      Sweet silent Creature!  That breath'st with me in sun and air,  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair  My heart with gladness, and a share      Of thy meek nature!

TO THE SAME FLOWER

  Bright Flower, whose home is every where!  A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,  And all the long year through the heir        Of joy or sorrow,  Methinks that there abides in thee  Some concord with humanity,  Given to no other Flower I see        The forest thorough!  Is it that Man is soon deprest?  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,  Does little on his memory rest,        Or on his reason,  And Thou would'st teach him how to find  A shelter under every wind.  A hope for times that are unkind        And every season?  Thou wander'st the wide world about,  Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,  With friends to greet thee, or without,        Yet pleased and willing;  Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,  And all things suffering from all,  Thy function apostolical        In peace fulfilling.

INCIDENT,

Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author  On his morning rounds the Master  Goes to learn how all things fare;  Searches pasture after pasture,  Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;  And, for silence or for talk,  He hath Comrades in his walk;  Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,  Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.  See, a Hare before him started!  – Off they fly in earnest chace;  Every Dog is eager-hearted,  All the four are in the race!  And the Hare whom they pursue  Hath an instinct what to do;  Her hope is near: no turn she makes;  But, like an arrow, to the River takes.  Deep the River was, and crusted  Thinly by a one night's frost;  But the nimble Hare hath trusted  To the ice, and safely crost;  She hath crost, and without heed  All are following at full speed,  When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,  Breaks – and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!  Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW —  See them cleaving to the sport!  Music has no heart to follow,  Little Music, she stops short.  She hath neither wish nor heart.  Her's is now another part:  A loving Creature she, and brave!  And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.  From the brink her paws she stretches,  Very hands as you would say!  And afflicting moans she fetches,  As he breaks the ice away.  For herself she hath no fears,  Him alone she sees and hears,  Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er  Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more.

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG

  Lie here sequester'd: – be this little mound  For ever thine, and be it holy ground!  Lie here, without a record of thy worth,  Beneath the covering of the common earth!  It is not from unwillingness to praise,  Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;  More thou deserv'st; but this Man gives to Man,  Brother to Brother, this is all we can.  Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear  Shall find thee through all changes of the year:  This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree  Will gladly stand a monument of thee.  I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past;  And willingly have laid thee here at last:  For thou hadst liv'd, till every thing that chears  In thee had yielded to the weight of years;  Extreme old age had wasted thee away,  And left thee but a glimmering of the day;  Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees, —  saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,  Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,  And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.  It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;  Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead;  Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,  Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;  But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,  Found scarcely any where in like degree!  For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,  Best gift of God, in thee was most intense;  A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,  A tender sympathy, which did thee bind  Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:  Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw  The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law: —  Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;  Our tears from passion and from reason came,  And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

SONNET

ADMONITION,(Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may havehappened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, inthe Country of the Lakes.)  Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!  – The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook  Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,  Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!  But covet not th' Abode – oh! do not sigh,  As many do, repining while they look,  Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book  This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.  Think what the home would be if it were thine,  Even thine, though few thy wants! – Roof, window, door,  The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,  The roses to the porch which they entwine:  Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day  On which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!

SONNET

      … "gives to airy nothing     A local habitation and a name."  Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near  The poor Old Man is greater than he seems:  For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;  An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.  Rich are his walks with supernatural chear;  The region of his inner spirit teems  With vital sounds, and monitory gleams  Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.  He the seven birds hath seen that never part,  Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,  And counted them: and oftentimes will start —  For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS,  Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart  To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.