Kitabı oku: «Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2», sayfa 2

ELLEN IRWIN,
Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.⁴

 
  Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
  Upon the Braes of Kirtle,
  Was lovely as a Grecian Maid
  Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle.
  Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,
  And there did they beguile the day
  With love and gentle speeches,
  Beneath the budding beeches.
 
 
  From many Knights and many Squires
  The Brace had been selected,
  And Gordon, fairest of them all,
  By Ellen was rejected.
  Sad tidings to that noble Youth!
  For it may be proclaim'd with truth,
  If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely,
  The Gordon loves as dearly.
 
 
  But what is Gordon's beauteous face?
  And what are Gordon's crosses
  To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes
  Upon the verdant mosses?
  Alas that ever he was born!
  The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn,
  Sees them and their caressing,
  Beholds them bless'd and blessing.
 
 
  Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts
  That through his brain are travelling,
  And, starting up, to Bruce's heart
  He launch'd a deadly jav'lin!
  Fair Ellen saw it when it came,
  And, stepping forth to meet the same,
  Did with her body cover
  The Youth her chosen lover.
 
 
  And, falling into Bruce's arms,
  Thus died the beauteous Ellen,
  Thus from the heart of her true-love
  The mortal spear repelling.
  And Bruce, as soon as he had slain
  The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain,
  And fought with rage incessant
  Against the Moorish Crescent.
 
 
  But many days and many months,
  And many years ensuing,
  This wretched Knight did vainly seek
  The death that he was wooing:
  So coming back across the wave,
  Without a groan on Ellen's grave
  His body he extended,
  And there his sorrow ended.
 
 
  Now ye who willingly have heard
  The tale I have been telling,
  May in Kirkonnel church-yard view
  The grave of lovely Ellen:
  By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid,
  And, for the stone upon his head,
  May no rude hand deface it,
  And its forlorn 'Hic jacet'.
 

Strange fits of passion I have known, &c

 
Strange fits of passion I have known,
  And I will dare to tell,
  But in the lover's ear alone,
  What once to me befel.
 
 
  When she I lov'd, was strong and gay
  And like a rose in June,
  I to her cottage bent my way,
  Beneath the evening moon.
 
 
  Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,
  All over the wide lea;
  My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh
  Those paths so dear to me.
 
 
  And now we reach'd the orchard plot,
  And, as we climb'd the hill,
  Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
  The moon descended still.
 
 
  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
  Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
  And, all the while, my eyes I kept
  On the descending moon.
 
 
  My horse mov'd on; hoof after hoof
  He rais'd and never stopp'd:
  When down behind the cottage roof
  At once the planet dropp'd.
 
 
  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
  Into a Lover's head —
  "O mercy!" to myself I cried,
  "If Lucy should be dead!"
 

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 liv'd unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceas'd to be;
  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!
    The difference to me.
 

A slumber did my spirit seal, &c

 
A slumber did my spirit seal,
    I had no human fears:
  She seem'd a thing that could not feel
    The touch of earthly years.
 
 
  No motion has she now, no force
    She neither hears nor sees
  Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
    With rocks and stones and trees!
 

The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE

 
  "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,
  Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,
  Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
  Between me and my choice!"
  A falling Water swoln with snows
  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,
  That all bespatter'd with his foam,
  And dancing high, and dancing low,
  Was living, as a child might know,
  In an unhappy home.
 
 
  "Dost thou presume my course to block?
  Off, off! or, puny Thing!
  I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
  To which thy fibres cling."
  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;
  The patient Briar suffer'd long,
  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
  Hoping the danger would be pass'd:
  But seeing no relief, at last
  He venture'd to reply.
 
 
  "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!
  Why should we dwell in strife?
  We who in this, our natal spot,
  Once liv'd a happy life!
  You stirr'd me on my rocky bed —
  What pleasure thro' my veins you spread!
  The Summer long from day to day
  My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;
  Nor was it common gratitude
  That did your cares repay."
 
 
  When Spring came on with bud and bell,
  Among these rocks did I
  Before you hang my wreath to tell
  That gentle days were nigh!
  And in the sultry summer hours
  I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;
  And in my leaves now shed and gone
  The linnet lodg'd and for us two
  Chaunted his pretty songs when you
  Had little voice or none.
 
 
  But now proud thoughts are in your breast —
  What grief is mine you see.
  Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest
  Together we might be!
  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
  Some ornaments to me are left —
  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
  With which I in my humble way
  Would deck you many a Winter's day,
  A happy Eglantine!
 
 
  What more he said, I cannot tell.
  The stream came thundering down the dell
  And gallop'd loud and fast;
  I listen'd, nor aught else could hear,
  The Briar quak'd and much I fear.
  Those accents were his last.
 

The OAK and the BROOM,
A PASTORAL

 
  His simple truths did Andrew glean
  Beside the babbling rills;
  A careful student he had been
  Among the woods and hills.
  One winter's night when through the Trees
  The wind was thundering, on his knees
  His youngest born did Andrew hold:
  And while the rest, a ruddy quire
  Were seated round their blazing fire,
  This Tale the Shepherd told.
 
 
  I saw a crag, a lofty stone
  As ever tempest beat!
  Out of its head an Oak had grown,
  A Broom out of its feet.
  The time was March, a chearful noon —
  The thaw-wind with the breath of June
  Breath'd gently from the warm South-west;
  When in a voice sedate with age
  This Oak, half giant and half sage,
  His neighbour thus address'd.
 
 
  "Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay,
  Along this mountain's edge
  The Frost hath wrought both night and day,
  Wedge driving after wedge.
  Look up, and think, above your head
  What trouble surely will be bred;
  Last night I heard a crash – 'tis true,
  The splinters took another road —
  I see them yonder – what a load
  For such a Thing as you!"
 
 
  You are preparing as before
  To deck your slender shape;
  And yet, just three years back – no more —
  You had a strange escape.
  Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,
  It came, you know, with fire and smoke
  And hither did it bend its way.
  This pond'rous block was caught by me,
  And o'er your head, as you may see,
  'Tis hanging to this day.
 
 
  The Thing had better been asleep,
  Whatever thing it were,
  Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,
  That first did plant you there.
  For you and your green twigs decoy
  The little witless Shepherd-boy
  To come and slumber in your bower;
  And trust me, on some sultry noon,
  Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
  Will perish in one hour.
 
 
  "From me this friendly warning take" —
  – The Broom began to doze,
  And thus to keep herself awake
  Did gently interpose.
  "My thanks for your discourse are due;
  That it is true, and more than true,
  I know and I have known it long;
  Frail is the bond, by which we hold
  Our being, be we young or old,
  Wise, foolish, weak or strong."
 
 
  Disasters, do the best we can,
  Will reach both great and small;
  And he is oft the wisest man,
  Who is not wise at all.
  For me, why should I wish to roam?
  This spot is my paternal home,
  It is my pleasant Heritage;
  My Father many a happy year
  Here spread his careless blossoms, here
  Attain'd a good old age.
 
 
  Even such as his may be may lot.
  What cause have I to haunt
  My heart with terrors? Am I not
  In truth a favor'd plant!
  The Spring for me a garland weaves
  Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,
  And, when the Frost is in the sky,
  My branches are so fresh and gay
  That You might look on me and say
  This plant can never die.
 
 
  The butterfly, all green and gold,
  To me hath often flown,
  Here in my Blossoms to behold
  Wings lovely as his own.
  When grass is chill with rain or dew,
  Beneath my shade the mother ewe
  Lies with her infant lamb; I see
  The love, they to each other make,
  And the sweet joy, which they partake,
  It is a joy to me.
 
 
  Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
  The Broom might have pursued
  Her speech, until the stars of night
  Their journey had renew'd.
  But in the branches of the Oak
  Two Ravens now began to croak
  Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
  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,⁵ 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

 
  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.