The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  When scudding on from snare to snare I plied

  My anxious visitation, hurrying on,

  Still hurrying, hurrying onward, how my heart

  Panted; among the scattered yew-trees and the crags

  That looked upon me, how my bosom beat

  With expectation! Sometimes strong desire

  Resistless overpowered me, and the bird

  Which was the captive of another’s toils

  Became my prey, and when the deed was done

  I heard among the solitary hills

  Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

  Of undistinguishable motion, steps

  Almost as silent as the turf they trod.

  Nor less in springtime, when on southern banks

  The shining sun had from his knot of leaves

  Decoyed the primrose flower, and when the vales

  And woods were warm, was I a rover then

  In the high places, on the lonesome peaks,

  Among the mountains and the winds. Though mean,

  And though inglorious, were my views, the end

  Was not ignoble. Oh, when I have hung

  Above the raven’s nest, by knots of grass

  Or half-inch fissures in the slippery rock

  But ill sustained, and almost (as it seemed)

  Suspended by the blast which blew amain

  Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time,

  While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,

  With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind

  Blow through my ears! The sky seemed not a sky

  Of earth – and with what motion moved the clouds!

  The mind of man is fashioned and built up

  Even as a strain of music. I believe

  That there are spirits which, when they would form

  A favoured being, from his very dawn

  Of infancy do open out the clouds

  As at the touch of lightning, seeking him

  With gentle visitation – quiet powers,

  Retired, and seldom recognized, yet kind,

  And to the very meanest not unknown –

  With me, though, rarely in my early days

  They communed. Others too there are, who use,

  Yet haply aiming at the self-same end,

  Severer interventions, ministry

  More palpable – and of their school was I.

  They guided me: one evening led by them

  I went alone into a shepherd’s boat,

  A skiff that to a willow-tree was tied

  Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

  The moon was up, the lake was shining clear

  Among the hoary mountains; from the shore

  I pushed, and struck the oars, and struck again

  In cadence, and my little boat moved on

  Just like a man who walks with stately step

  Though bent on speed. It was an act of stealth

  And troubled pleasure. Not without the voice

  Of mountain echoes did my boat move on,

  Leaving behind her still on either side

  Small circles glittering idly in the moon

  Until they melted all into one track

  Of sparkling light.

  A rocky steep uprose

  Above the cavern of the willow-tree,

  And now, as suited one who proudly rowed

  With his best skill, I fixed a steady view

  Upon the top of that same craggy ridge,

  The bound of the horizon – for behind

  Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

  She was an elfin pinnace; twenty times

  I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

  And as I rose upon the stroke my boat

  Went heaving through the water like a swan –

  When, from behind that rocky steep (till then

  The bound of the horizon) a huge cliff,

  As if with voluntary power instinct,

  Upreared its head. I struck, and struck again,

  And, growing still in stature, the huge cliff

  Rose up between me and the stars, and still,

  With measured motion, like a living thing

  Strode after me. With trembling hands I turned

  And through the silent water stole my way

  Back to the cavern of the willow-tree.

  There in her mooring-place I left my bark,

  And through the meadows homeward went with grave

  And serious thoughts; and after I had seen

  That spectacle, for many days my brain

  Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

  Of unknown modes of being. In my thoughts

  There was a darkness – call it solitude,

  Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

  Of hourly objects, images of trees,

  Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields,

  But huge and mighty forms that do not live

  Like living men moved slowly through my mind

  By day, and were the trouble of my dreams.

  (… )

  Ere I had seen

  Eight summers – and ’twas in the very week

  When I was first transplanted to thy vale,

  Belovèd Hawkshead, when thy paths, thy shores

  And brooks, were like a dream of novelty

  To my half-infant mind – I chanced to cross

  One of those open fields which, shaped like ears,

  Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite’s lake.

  Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom

  I saw distinctly on the opposite shore,

  Beneath a tree and close by the lake side,

  A heap of garments, as if left by one

  Who there was bathing. Half an hour I watched

  And no one owned them; meanwhile the calm lake

  Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast,

  And now and then a leaping fish disturbed

  The breathless stillness. The succeeding day

  There came a company, and in their boat

  Sounded with iron hooks and with long poles.

  At length the dead man, mid that beauteous scene

  Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright

  Rose with his ghastly face. I might advert

  To numerous accidents in flood or field,

  Quarry or moor, or mid the winter snows,

  Distresses and disasters, tragic facts

  Of rural history that impressed my mind

  With images to which in following years

  Far other feelings were attached – with forms

  That yet exist with independent life,

  And, like their archetypes, know no decay.

  There are in our existence spots of time

  Which with distinct preeminence retain

  A fructifying virtue, whence, depressed

  By trivial occupations and the round

  Of ordinary intercourse, our minds –

  Especially the imaginative power –

  Are nourished and invisibly repaired;

  Such moments chiefly seem to have their date

  In our first childhood.

  I remember well

  (’Tis of an early season that I speak,

  The twilight of rememberable life),

  While I was yet an urchin, one who scarce

  Could hold a bridle, with ambitious hopes

  I mounted, and we rode towards the hills.

  We were a pair of horsemen: honest James

  Was with me, my encourager and guide.

  We had not travelled long ere some mischance

  Disjoined me from my comrade, and, through fear

  Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor

  I led my horse, and stumbling on, at length

  Came to a bottom where in former times

  A man, the murderer of his wife, was hung

  In irons. Mouldered was the gibbet-mast;

  The
bones were gone, the iron and the wood;

  Only a long green ridge of turf remained

  Whose shape was like a grave. I left the spot,

  And reascending the bare slope I saw

  A naked pool that lay beneath the hills,

  The beacon on the summit, and more near

  A girl who bore a pitcher on her head

  And seemed with difficult steps to force her way

  Against the blowing wind. It was in truth

  An ordinary sight, but I should need

  Colours and words that are unknown to man

  To paint the visionary dreariness

  Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide,

  Did at that time invest the naked pool,

  The beacon on the lonely eminence,

  The woman and her garments vexed and tossed

  By the strong wind.

  (1973)

  ROBERT BURNS from Love and Liberty. A Cantata

  See the smoking bowl before us,

  Mark our jovial, ragged ring!

  Round and round take up the Chorus,

  And in raptures let us sing –

  Chorus –

  A fig for those by law protected!

  LIBERTY’S a glorious feast!

  Courts for Cowards were erected,

  Churches built to please the PRIEST.

  What is TITLE, what is TREASURE,

  What is REPUTATION’S care?

  If we lead a life of pleasure,

  ’Tis no matter HOW or WHERE.

  A fig, &c.

  With the ready trick and fable

  Round we wander all the day;

  And at night, in barn or stable,

  Hug our doxies on the hay.

  A fig for &c.

  Does the train-attended CARRIAGE

  Thro’ the country lighter rove?

  Does the sober bed of MARRIAGE

  Witness brighter scenes of love?

  A fig for &c.

  Life is all a VARIORUM,

  We regard not how it goes;

  Let them cant about DECORUM,

  Who have character to lose.

  A fig for &c.

  Here ’s to BUDGETS, BAGS and WALLETS!

  Here ’s to all the wandering train!

  Here ’s our ragged BRATS and CALLETS!

  One and all cry out, AMEN!

  A fig for those by LAW protected,

  LIBERTY’S a glorious feast!

  COURTS for Cowards were erected,

  CHURCHES built to please the Priest.

  (written 1785)

  1800 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH from Lyrical Ballads

  A slumber did my spirit seal,

  I had no human fears:

  She seemed a thing that could not feel

  The touch of earthly years.

  No motion has she now, no force

  She neither hears nor sees

  Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course

  With rocks and stones and trees!

  Song

  She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways

  Beside the springs of Dove,

  A Maid whom there were none to praise

  And very few to love.

  A Violet by a mossy stone

  Half-hidden from the Eye!

  – Fair, as a star when only one

  Is shining in the sky!

  She lived unknown, and few could know

  When Lucy ceased to be;

  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!

  The difference to me.

  ROBERT BURNS 1801

  Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,

  On yonder lea, on yonder lea;

  My plaidie to the angry airt,

  I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee:

  5

  Or did misfortune’s bitter storms

  Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

  Thy bield should be my bosom,

  To share it a’, to share it a’.

  Or were I in the wildest waste,

  10

  Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,

  The desart were a paradise,

  If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

  Or were I monarch o’ the globe,

  Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign;

  15

  The brightest jewel in my crown,

  Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

  ROBERT BURNS The Fornicator. A New Song

  Ye jovial boys who love the joys,

  The blissful joys of Lovers;

  Yet dare avow with dauntless brow,

  When th’ bony lass discovers;

  5

  I pray draw near and lend an ear,

  And welcome in a Frater,

  For I’ve lately been on quarantine,

  A proven Fornicator.

  Before the Congregation wide

  10

  I pass’d the muster fairly,

  My handsome Betsey by my side,

  We gat our ditty rarely;

  But my downcast eye by chance did spy

  What made my lips to water,

  15

  Those limbs so clean where I, between,

  Commenc’d a Fornicator.

  With rueful face and signs of grace

  I pay’d the buttock-hire,

  The night was dark and thro’ the park

  20

  I could not but convoy her;

  A parting kiss, what could I less,

  My vows began to scatter,

  My Betsey fell – lal de dal lal lal,

  I am a Fornicator.

  25

  But for her sake this vow I make,

  And solemnly I swear it,

  That while I own a single crown,

  She’s welcome for to share it;

  And my roguish boy his Mother’s joy,

  30

  And the darling of his Pater,

  For him I boast my pains and cost,

  Although a Fornicator.

  Ye wenching blades whose hireling jades

  Have tipt you off blue-boram,

  35

  I tell ye plain, I do disdain

  To rank you in the Quorum;

  But a bony lass upon the grass

  To teach her esse Mater,

  And no reward but for regard,

  40

  O that’s a Fornicator.