Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth
Page 35
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling Bees
To feed and murmur there.
One night the Wind came from the North
And blew a furious blast,
At break of day I ventur’d forth
And near the Cliff I pass’d.
The storm had fall’n upon the Oak
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirl’d and whirl’d him far away;
And in one hospitable Cleft
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day.
LUCY GRAY.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross’d the Wild,
I chanc’d to see at break of day
The solitary Child.
No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
”To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro’ the snow.”
”That, Father! will I gladly do;
’Tis scarcely afternoon —
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon.”
At this the Father rais’d his hook
And snapp’d a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse, the powd’ry snow
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time,
She wander’d up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach’d the Town.
The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook’d the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood
A furlong from their door.
And now they homeward turn’d, and cry’d
”In Heaven we all shall meet!”
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy’s feet.
Then downward from the steep hill’s edge
They track’d the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they cross’d,
The marks were still the same;
They track’d them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.
They follow’d from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS.
OR
DUNGEON-GILL FORCE
A PASTORAL.
I.
The valley rings with mirth and joy,
Among the hills the Echoes play
A never, never ending song
To welcome in the May.
The Magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain Raven’s youngling Brood
Have left the Mother and the Nest,
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food,
Or thro’ the glittering Vapors dart
In very wantonness of Heart.
II.
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two Boys are sitting in the sun;
It seems they have no work to do
Or that their work is done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas Hymn,
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call Stag-horn, or Fox’s Tail
Their rusty Hats they trim:
And thus as happy as the Day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.
III.
Along the river’s stony marge
The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the Wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those Boys with their green Coronal,
They never hear the cry,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.
IV.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
”Down to the stump of yon old yew
I’ll run with you a race.” — No more —
Away the Shepherds flew.
They leapt, they ran, and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,
Seeing, that he should lose the prize,
”Stop!” to his comrade Walter cries —
James stopp’d with no good will:
Said Walter then, “Your task is here,
’Twill keep you working half a year.”
V.
”Till you have cross’d where I shall cross,
Say that you’ll neither sleep nor eat.”
James proudly took him at his word,
But did not like the feat.
It was a spot, which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go:
Into a chasm a mighty Block
Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;
The gulph is deep below,
And in a bason black and small
Receives a lofty Waterfall.
VI.
With staff in hand across the cleft
The Challenger began his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain’d
The middle of the arch.
When list! he hears a piteous moan —
Again! his heart within him dies —
His pulse is stopp’d, his breath is lost,
He totters, pale as any ghost,
And, looking down, he spies
A Lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.
VII.
The Lamb had slipp’d into the stream,
And safe without a bruise or wound
The Cataract had borne him down
Into the gulph profound,
His dam had seen him when he fell,
She saw him down the torrent borne;
And while with all a mother’s love
She from the lofty rocks above
Sent forth a cry forlorn,
The Lamb, still swimming round and round
Made answer to that plaintive sound.
VIII.
When he had learnt, what thing it was,
That sent this rueful cry; I ween,
The Boy recover’d heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferr’d their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid —
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages’ books,
By chance had thither stray’d;
And there the helpless Lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompass’d round.
IX.
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sp; He drew it gently from the pool,
And brought it forth into the light;
The Shepherds met him with his charge
An unexpected sight!
Into their arms the Lamb they took,
Said they, “He’s neither maim’d nor scarr’d” —
Then up the steep ascent they hied
And placed him at his Mother’s side;
And gently did the Bard
Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
And bade them better mind their trade.
’Tis said, that some have died for love:
And here and there a church-yard grave is found
In the cold North’s unhallow’d ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn’s side.
He loved — The pretty Barbara died,
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
When thus his moan he made.
Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak
Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!
The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart:
I look — the sky is empty space;
I know not what I trace;
But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.
O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,
When will that dying murmur be suppress’d?
Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,
It robs my heart of rest.
Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,
Into yon row of willows flit,
Upon that alder sit;
Or sing another song, or chuse another tree
Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chain’d!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds
That cannot be sustain’d;
If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
Oh let it then be dumb! —
Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.
Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers
(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale)
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.
For thus to see thee nodding in the air,
To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,
Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.
The man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipp’d from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.
POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,
There’s a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has pass’d by the spot and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail,
And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove’s,
The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all pass’d away from her eyes.
Poor Outcast! return — to receive thee once more
The house of thy Father will open its door,
And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,
May’st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT’S ISLAND, DERWENT-WATER.
If thou in the dear love of some one friend
Hast been so happy, that thou know’st what thoughts
Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love
Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence
This quiet spot. — St. Herbert hither came
And here, for many seasons, from the world
Remov’d, and the affections of the world
He dwelt in solitude. He living here,
This island’s sole inhabitant! had left
A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov’d
As his own soul; and when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix
While o’er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Peal’d to his orisons, and when he pac’d
Along the beach of this small isle and thought
Of his Companion, he had pray’d that both
Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain
So pray’d he: — as our Chronicles report,
Though here the Hermit number’d his last days,
Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE HOUSE ON THE ISLAND AT GRASMERE.
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain’d
Proportions more harmonious, and approach’d
To somewhat of a closer fellowship
With the ideal grace. Yet as it is
Do take it in good part; for he, the poor
Vitruvius of our village, had no help
From the great city; never on the leaves
Of red Morocco folio saw display’d
The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts
Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,
Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.
It is a homely pile, yet to these walls
The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here
The new-dropp’d lamb finds shelter from the wind.
And hither does one Poet sometimes row
His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled
With plenteous store of heath and wither’d fern,
A lading which he with his sickle cuts
Among the mountains, and beneath this roof
He makes his summer couch, and here at noon
Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep
Panting beneath the burthen of their wool
Lie round him, even as if they were a part
Of his own household: nor, while from his bed
He through that door-place looks toward the lake
And to the stirring breezes, does he want
Creations lovely as the work of sleep,
Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.
TO A SEXTON.
Let thy wheel-barrow alone.
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid.
— These died in peace each with the other,
Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.
Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform eight feet square
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew’s whole fire-side is there.
Simon’s sickly Daughter lies
From weakness, now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.
Look but at the gardener’s pride,
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families.
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.
Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And should I live through sun and rain
Seven widow’d years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Lov’d and Lover!
ANDREW JONES.
I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!
For this poor crawling helpless wretch
Some Horseman who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor Cripple was alone
And could not stoop — no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
For it had long been droughty weather:
So with his staff the Cripple wrought
Among the dust till he had brought
The halfpennies together.
It chanc’d that Andrew pass’d that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The Cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.
He stopp’d and took the penny up.
And when the Cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown.
What a man finds is all his own,
And so, my Friend, good day to you.”
And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys
Will all be train’d to waste and pillage;
And wish’d the press-gang, or the drum
With its tantara sound, would come
And sweep him from the village!
THE TWO THIEVES.
OR
THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.
Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine
And the skill which He learn’d on the Banks of the Tyne;
When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose