Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Again? — on tip-toe down the hill

  He 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’d

  To 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 morrow

  That 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.

  LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.

  It is the first mild day of March:

  Each minute sweeter than before,

  The red-breast sings from the tall larch

  That stands beside our door.

  There is a blessing in the air,

  Which seems a sense of joy to yield

  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

  And grass in the green field.

  My Sister! (‘tis a wish of mine)

  Now that our morning meal is done,

  Make haste, your morning task resign;

  Come forth and feel the sun.

  Edward will come with you, and pray,

  Put on with speed your woodland dress,

  And bring no book, for this one day

  We’ll give to idleness.

  No joyless forms shall regulate

  Our living Calendar:

  We from to-day, my friend, will date

  The opening of the year.

  Love, now an universal birth.

  From heart to heart is stealing,

  From earth to man, from man to earth,

  — It is the hour of feeling.

  One moment now may give us more

  Than fifty years of reason;

  Our minds shall drink at every pore

  The spirit of the season.

  Some silent laws our hearts may make,

  Which they shall long obey;

  We for the year to come may take

  Our temper from to-day.

  And from the blessed power that rolls

  About, below, above;

  We’ll frame the measure of our souls,

  They shall be tuned to love.

  Then come, my sister! come, I pray,

  With speed put on your woodland dress,

  And bring no book; for this one day

  We’ll give to idleness.

  SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

  In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

  Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

  An old man dwells, a little man,

  I’ve heard he once was tall.

  Of years he has upon his back,

  No doubt, a burthen weighty;

  He says he is three score and ten,

  But others say he’s eighty.

  A long blue livery-coat has he,

  That’s fair behind, and fair before;

  Yet, meet him where you will, you see

  At once that he is poor.

  Full five and twenty years he lived

  A running huntsman merry;

  And, though he has but one eye left,

  His cheek is like a cherry.

  No man like him the horn could sound.

  And no man was so full of glee;

  To say the least, four counties round

  Had heard of Simon Lee;

  His master’s dead, and no one now

  Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

  Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

  He is the sole survivor.

  His hunting feats have him bereft

  Of his right eye, as you may see:

  And then, what limbs those feats have left

  To poor old Simon Lee!

  He has no son, he has no child,

  His wife, an aged woman,

  Lives with him, near the waterfall,

  Upon the village common.

  And he is lean and he is sick,

  His little body’s half awry

  His ancles they are swoln and thick

  His legs are thin and dry.

  When he was young he little knew

  Of husbandry or tillage;

  And now he’s forced to work, though weak,

  — The weakest in the village.

  He all the country could outrun,

  Could leave both man and horse behind;

  And often, ere the race was done,

  He reeled and was stone-blind.

  And still there’s something in the world

  At which his heart rejoices;

  For when the chiming hounds are out,

  He dearly loves their voices!

  Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

  And does what Simon cannot do;

  For she, not over stout of limb,

  Is stouter of the two.

  And though you with your utmost skill

  From labour could not wean them,

  Alas! ‘tis very little, all

  Which they can do between them.

  Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,

  Not twenty paces from the door,

  A scrap of land they have, but they

  Are poorest of the poor.

  This scrap of land he from the heath

  Enclosed when he was stronger;

  But what avails the land to them,

  Which they can till no longer?

  Few months of life has he in store,

  As he to you will tell,

  For still, the more he works, the more

  His poor old ancles swell.

  My gentle reader, I perceive

  How patiently you’ve waited,

  And I’m afraid that you expect

  Some tale will be related.

  O reader! had you in your mind

  Such stores as silent thought can bring,

  O gentle reader! you would find

  A tale in every thing.

  What more I hav
e to say is short,

  I hope you’ll kindly take it;

  It is no tale; but should you think,

  Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

  One summer-day I chanced to see

  This old man doing all he could

  About the root of an old tree,

  A stump of rotten wood.

  The mattock totter’d in his hand;

  So vain was his endeavour

  That at the root of the old tree

  He might have worked for ever.

  “You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,

  Give me your tool” to him I said;

  And at the word right gladly he

  Received my proffer’d aid.

  I struck, and with a single blow

  The tangled root I sever’d,

  At which the poor old man so long

  And vainly had endeavour’d.

  The tears into his eyes were brought,

  And thanks and praises seemed to run

  So fast out of his heart, I thought

  They never would have done.

  — I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

  With coldness still returning.

  Alas! the gratitude of men

  Has oftner left me mourning.

  ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT.

  I have a boy of five years old,

  His face is fair and fresh to see;

  His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

  And dearly he loves me.

  One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,

  Our quiet house all full in view,

  And held such intermitted talk

  As we are wont to do.

  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

  I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

  My pleasant home, when spring began,

  A long, long year before.

  A day it was when I could bear

  To think, and think, and think again;

  With so much happiness to spare,

  I could not feel a pain.

  My boy was by my side, so slim

  And graceful in his rustic dress!

  And oftentimes I talked to him,

  In very idleness.

  The young lambs ran a pretty race;

  The morning sun shone bright and warm;

  “Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,

  “And so is Liswyn farm.

  “My little boy, which like you more,”

  I said and took him by the arm —

  “Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,

  “Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  “And tell me, had you rather be,”

  I said and held him by the arm,

  “At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

  “Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  In careless mood he looked at me,

  While still I held him by the arm,

  And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

  “Than here at Liswyn farm.”

  “Now, little Edward, say why so;

  My little Edward, tell me why;”

  “I cannot tell, I do not know,”

  “Why this is strange,” said I.

  “For, here are woods and green-hills warm;

  “There surely must some reason be

  “Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

  “For Kilve by the green sea.”

  At this, my boy, so fair and slim,

  Hung down his head, nor made reply;

  And five times did I say to him,

  “Why? Edward, tell me why?”

  His head he raised — there was in sight,

  It caught his eye, he saw it plain —

  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

  A broad and gilded vane.

  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

  And thus to me he made reply;

  “At Kilve there was no weather-cock,

  “And that’s the reason why.”

  Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart

  For better lore would seldom yearn,

  Could I but teach the hundredth part

  Of what from thee I learn.

  WE ARE SEVEN.

  A simple child, dear brother Jim,

  That lightly draws its breath,

  And feels its life in every limb,

  What should it know of death?

  I met a little cottage girl,

  She was eight years old, she said;

  Her hair was thick with many a curl

  That cluster’d round her head.

  She had a rustic, woodland air,

  And she was wildly clad;

  Her eyes were fair, and very fair,

  — Her beauty made me glad.

  “Sisters and brothers, little maid,

  “How many may you be?”

  “How many? seven in all,” she said,

  And wondering looked at me.

  “And where are they, I pray you tell?”

  She answered, “Seven are we,

  “And two of us at Conway dwell,

  “And two are gone to sea.

  “Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  “My sister and my brother,

  “And in the church-yard cottage, I

  “Dwell near them with my mother.”

  “You say that two at Conway dwell,

  “And two are gone to sea,

  “Yet you are seven; I pray you tell

  “Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

  Then did the little Maid reply,

  “Seven boys and girls are we;

  “Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  “Beneath the church-yard tree.”

  “You run about, my little maid,

  “Your limbs they are alive;

  “If two are in the church-yard laid,

  “Then ye are only five.”

  “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

  The little Maid replied,

  “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

  “And they are side by side.

  “My stockings there I often knit,

  “My ‘kerchief there I hem;

  “And there upon the ground I sit —

  “I sit and sing to them.

  “And often after sunset, Sir,

  “When it is light and fair,

  “I take my little porringer,

  “And eat my supper there.

  “The first that died was little Jane;

  “In bed she moaning lay,

  “Till God released her of her pain,

  “And then she went away.

  “So in the church-yard she was laid,

  “And all the summer dry,

  “Together round her grave we played,

  “My brother John and I.

  “And when the ground was white with snow,

  “And I could run and slide,

  “My brother John was forced to go,

  “And he lies by her side.”

  “How many are you then,” said I,

  “If they two are in Heaven?”

  The little Maiden did reply,

  “O Master! we are seven.”

  “But they are dead; those two are dead!

  “Their spirits are in heaven!”

  ‘Twas throwing words away; for still

  The little Maid would have her will,

  And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

  LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

  I heard a thousand blended notes,

  While in a grove I sate reclined,

  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

  To her fair works did nature link

  The human soul that through me ran;

  And much it griev’d my heart to think

  What man has made of man.

  Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,

  The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes;


  And ‘tis my faith that every flower

  Enjoys the air it breathes.

  The birds around me hopp’d and play’d:

  Their thoughts I cannot measure,

  But the least motion which they made,

  It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

  The budding twigs spread out their fan,

  To catch the breezy air;

  And I must think, do all I can,

  That there was pleasure there.

  If I these thoughts may not prevent,

  If such be of my creed the plan,

  Have I not reason to lament

  What man has made of man?

  THE THORN.

  I.

  There is a thorn; it looks so old,

  In truth you’d find it hard to say,

  How it could ever have been young,

  It looks so old and grey.

  Not higher than a two-years’ child,

  It stands erect this aged thorn;

  No leaves it has, no thorny points;

  It is a mass of knotted joints,

  A wretched thing forlorn.

  It stands erect, and like a stone

  With lichens it is overgrown.

  II.

  Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown

  With lichens to the very top,

  And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

  A melancholy crop:

  Up from the earth these mosses creep,

  And this poor thorn they clasp it round

  So close, you’d say that they were bent

  With plain and manifest intent,

  To drag it to the ground;

  And all had joined in one endeavour

  To bury this poor thorn for ever.

  III.

  High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

  Where oft the stormy winter gale

  Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

  It sweeps from vale to vale;

  Not five yards from the mountain-path,

  This thorn you on your left espy;

  And to the left, three yards beyond,

  You see a little muddy pond

  Of water, never dry;

  I’ve measured it from side to side:

  ‘Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

  IV.

  And close beside this aged thorn,

  There is a fresh and lovely sight,

  A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

  Just half a foot in height.

  All lovely colours there you see,

  All colours that were ever seen,

  And mossy network too is there,

  As if by hand of lady fair

  The work had woven been,

  And cups, the darlings of the eye,

  So deep is their vermilion dye.

  V.

  Ah me! what lovely tints are there!

  Of olive-green and scarlet bright,

  In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

  Green, red, and pearly white.

  This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss