Kitabı oku: «Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2», sayfa 4

The Two April Mornings

 
  We walk'd along, while bright and red
  Uprose the morning sun,
  And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said,
  "The will of God be done!"
 
 
  A village Schoolmaster was he,
  With hair of glittering grey;
  As blithe a man as you could see
  On a spring holiday.
 
 
  And on that morning, through the grass,
  And by the steaming rills,
  We travell'd merrily to pass
  A day among the hills.
 
 
  "Our work," said I, "was well begun;
  Then, from thy breast what thought,
  Beneath so beautiful a sun,
  So sad a sigh has brought?"
 
 
  A second time did Matthew stop,
  And fixing still his eye
  Upon the eastern mountain-top
  To me he made reply.
 
 
  Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
  Brings fresh into my mind
  A day like this which I have left
  Full thirty years behind.
 
 
  And on that slope of springing corn
  The self-same crimson hue
  Fell from the sky that April morn,
  The same which now I view!
 
 
  With rod and line my silent sport
  I plied by Derwent's wave,
  And, coming to the church, stopp'd short
  Beside my Daughter's grave.
 
 
  Nine summers had she scarcely seen
  The pride of all the vale;
  And then she sang! – she would have been
  A very nightingale.
 
 
  Six feet in earth my Emma lay,
  And yet I lov'd her more,
  For so it seem'd, than till that day
  I e'er had lov'd before.
 
 
  And, turning from her grave, I met
  Beside the church-yard Yew
  A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
  With points of morning dew.
 

The FOUNTAIN,
A Conversation

 
  We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
  Affectionate and true,
  A pair of Friends, though I was young,
  And Matthew seventy-two.
 
 
  We lay beneath a spreading oak,
  Beside a mossy seat,
  And from the turf a fountain broke,
  And gurgled at our feet.
 
 
  Now, Matthew, let us try to match
  This water's pleasant tune
  With some old Border-song, or catch
  That suits a summer's noon.
 
 
  Or of the Church-clock and the chimes
  Sing here beneath the shade,
  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
  Which you last April made!
 
 
  On silence Matthew lay, and eyed
  The spring beneath the tree;
  And thus the dear old Man replied,
  The grey-hair'd Man of glee.
 
 
  "Down to the vale this water steers,
  How merrily it goes!
  Twill murmur on a thousand years,
  And flow as now it flows."
 
 
  And here, on this delightful day,
  I cannot chuse but think
  How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay
  Beside this Fountain's brink.
 
 
  My eyes are dim with childish tears.
  My heart is idly stirr'd,
  For the same sound is in my ears,
  Which in those days I heard.
 
 
  Thus fares it still in our decay:
  And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away
  Than what it leaves behind.
 
 
  The blackbird in the summer trees,
  The lark upon the hill,
  Let loose their carols when they please,
  Are quiet when they will.
 
 
  With Nature never do they wage
  A foolish strife; they see
  A happy youth, and their old age
  Is beautiful and free:
 
 
  But we are press'd by heavy laws,
  And often, glad no more,
  We wear a face of joy, because
  We have been glad of yore.
 
 
  If there is one who need bemoan
  His kindred laid in earth,
  The houshold hearts that were his own,
  It is the man of mirth.
 
 
  "My days, my Friend, are almost gone,
  My life has been approv'd,
  And many love me, but by none
  Am I enough belov'd."
 
 
  "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
  The man who thus complains!
  I live and sing my idle songs
  Upon these happy plains,"
 
 
  "And, Matthew, for thy Children dead
  I'll be a son to thee!"
  At this he grasp'd his hands, and said,
  "Alas! that cannot be."
 
 
  We rose up from the fountain-side,
  And down the smooth descent
  Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
  And through the wood we went,
 
 
  And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
  He sang those witty rhymes
  About the crazy old church-clock
  And the bewilder'd chimes.
 

NUTTING

 
  – It seems a day,
  One of those heavenly days which cannot die,
  When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,⁹
  And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
  A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps
  Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,
  Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds
  Put on for the occasion, by advice
  And exhortation of my frugal Dame.
 
 
  Motley accoutrements! of power to smile
  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,
  More ragged than need was. Among the woods,
  And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way
  Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
  Unvisited, where not a broken bough
  Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign
  Of devastation, but the hazels rose
  Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,
  A virgin scene! – A little while I stood,
  Breathing with such suppression of the heart
  As joy delights in; and with wise restraint
  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
  The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate
  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;
  A temper known to those, who, after long
  And weary expectation, have been bless'd
  With sudden happiness beyond all hope. —
  – Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves
  The violets of five seasons re-appear
  And fade, unseen by any human eye,
  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
  For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,
  And with my cheek on one of those green stones
  That, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees,
  Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep,
  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,
  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay
  Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure
  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,
  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,
  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
  And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash
  And merciless ravage; and the shady nook
  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower
  Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up
  Their quiet being: and unless I now
  Confound my present feelings with the past,
  Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away,
  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings
  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
  The silent trees and the intruding sky. —
 
 
  Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades
  In gentleness of heart with gentle hand
  Touch, – for there is a Spirit in the woods.
 

Three years she grew in sun and shower, &c

 
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
  Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
  On earth was never sown;
  This Child I to myself will take,
  She shall be mine, and I will make
  A Lady of my own."
 
 
  Myself will to my darling be
  Both law and impulse, and with me
  The Girl in rock and plain,
  In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
  Shall feel an overseeing power
  To kindle or restrain.
 
 
  She shall be sportive as the fawn
  That wild with glee across the lawn
  Or up the mountain springs,
  And hers shall be the breathing balm,
  And hers the silence and the calm
  Of mute insensate things.
 
 
  The floating clouds their state shall lend
  To her, for her the willow bend,
  Nor shall she fail to see
  Even in the motions of the storm
  A beauty that shall mould her form
  By silent sympathy.
 
 
  The stars of midnight shall be dear
  To her, and she shall lean her ear
  In many a secret place
  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
  And beauty born of murmuring sound
  Shall pass into her face.
 
 
  And vital feelings of delight
  Shall rear her form to stately height,
  Her virgin bosom swell,
  Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
  While she and I together live
  Here in this happy dell.
 
 
  Thus Nature spake – The work was done —
  How soon my Lucy's race was run!
  She died and left to me
  This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
  The memory of what has been,
  And never more will be.
 

The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral

 
  The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
  I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink!
  And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied;
  A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.
 
 
  No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,
  And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;
  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,
  While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.
 
 
  The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took
  Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.
  "Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone
  That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.
 
 
  'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare;
  I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
  And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away,
  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.
 
 
  Towards the Lamb she look'd, and from that shady place
  I unobserv'd could see the workings of her face:
  If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring
  Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.
 
 
  What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?
  Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?
  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be.
  Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?
 
 
  What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
  This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer,
  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.
 
 
  If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
  This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain,
  For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear,
  The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.
 
 
  Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day
  When my Father found thee first in places far away:
  Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none,
  And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.
 
 
  He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,
  A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam?
  A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean
  Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.
 
 
  Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can
  Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran;
  And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew
  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
 
 
  Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
  Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough,
  My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold
  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
 
 
  It will not, will not rest! – poor Creature can it be
  That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working so in thee?
  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
  And dreams of things which thou can'st neither see nor hear.
 
 
  Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!
  I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there,
  The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,
  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
 
 
  Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky,
  He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,
  Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,
  Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?
 
 
  As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,
  And it seem'd as I retrac'd the ballad line by line
  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.
 
 
  Again, and once again did I repeat the song,
  "Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,
  For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
  That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."
 

Written in GERMANY,
On one of the coldest days of the Century

I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

 
  A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
  Let me have the song of the Kettle,
  And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
  That gallops away with such fury and force
  On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
 
 
  Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
  But her pulses beat slower and slower.
  The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
  And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,
  And now it is four degrees lower.
 
 
  Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
  A child of the field, or the grove,
  And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
  Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat,
  And he creeps to the edge of my stove.
 
 
  Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
  Which this comfortless oven environ,
  He cannot find out in what track he must crawl
  Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall,
  And now on the brink of the iron.
 
 
  Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd,
  The best of his skill he has tried;
  His feelers methinks I can see him put forth
  To the East and the West, and the South and the North,
  But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
 
 
  See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh,
  His eyesight and hearing are lost,
  Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,
  And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
  Are glued to his sides by the frost.
 
 
  No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I
  Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love,
  As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,
  As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
  And woodbines were hanging above.
 
 
  Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,
  Thy life I would gladly sustain
  Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds
  Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the clouds,
  And back to the forests again.
 

The CHILDLESS FATHER

 
  Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away!
  Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
  The Hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
  And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.
 
 
  – Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green,
  On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen,
  With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,
  The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
 
 
  The bason of box-wood,¹⁰ just six months before,
  Had stood on the table at Timothy's door,
  A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pass'd,
  One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.
 
 
  Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
  The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!
  Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shut
  With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.
 
 
  Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
  "The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead"
  But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
  And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
 

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. A DESCRIPTION

The OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR, A DESCRIPTION

The class of Beggars to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received charity; sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.

 
  I saw an aged Beggar in my walk,
  And he was seated by the highway side
  On a low structure of rude masonry
  Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
  Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
  May thence remount at ease. The aged man
  Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
  That overlays the pile, and from a bag
  All white with flour the dole of village dames,
  He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one,
  And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look
  Of idle computation. In the sun,
  Upon the second step of that small pile,
  Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
  He sate, and eat his food in solitude;
  And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand,
  That still attempting to prevent the waste,
  Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
  Fell on the ground, and the small mountain birds,
  Not venturing yet to peck their destin'd meal,
  Approached within the length of half his staff.
 
 
  Him from my childhood have I known, and then
  He was so old, he seems not older now;
  He travels on, a solitary man,
  So helpless in appearance, that for him
  The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
  With careless hand his alms upon the ground,
  But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin
  Within the old Man's hat; nor quits him so,
  But still when he has given his horse the rein
  Towards the aged Beggar turns a look,
  Sidelong and half-reverted. She who tends
  The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
  She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
  The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
  And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
  The Post-boy when his rattling wheels o'ertake
  The aged Beggar, in the woody lane,
  Shouts to him from behind, and, if perchance
  The old Man does not change his course, the Boy
  Turns with less noisy wheels to the road-side,
  And passes gently by, without a curse
  Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.
 
 
  He travels on, a solitary Man,
  His age has no companion. On the ground
  His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along,
  They move along the ground; and evermore;
  Instead of common and habitual sight
  Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale,
  And the blue sky, one little span of earth
  Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
  Bowbent, his eyes for ever on the ground,
  He plies his weary journey, seeing still,
  And never knowing that he sees, some straw,
  Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track,
  The nails of cart or chariot wheel have left
  Impress'd on the white road, in the same line,
  At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
  His staff trails with him, scarcely do his feet
  Disturb the summer dust, he is so still
  In look and motion that the cottage curs,
  Ere he have pass'd the door, will turn away
  Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
  The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
  And urchins newly breech'd all pass him by:
  Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.
 
 
  But deem not this man useless. – Statesmen! ye
  Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
  Who have a broom still ready in your hands
  To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
  Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
  Your talents, power, and wisdom, deem him not
  A burthen of the earth. Tis Nature's law
  That none, the meanest of created things,
  Of forms created the most vile and brute,
  The dullest or most noxious, should exist
  Divorced from good, a spirit and pulse of good,
  A life and soul to every mode of being
  Inseparably link'd. While thus he creeps
  From door to door, the Villagers in him
  Behold a record which together binds
  Past deeds and offices of charity
  Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive
  The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
  And that half-wisdom, half-experience gives
  Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
  To selfishness and cold oblivious cares.
 
 
  Among the farms and solitary huts
  Hamlets, and thinly-scattered villages,
  Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
  The mild necessity of use compels
  To acts of love; and habit does the work
  Of reason, yet prepares that after joy
  Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
  By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursu'd
  Doth find itself insensibly dispos'd
  To virtue and true goodness. Some there are,
  By their good works exalted, lofty minds
  And meditative, authors of delight
  And happiness, which to the end of time
  Will live, and spread, and kindle; minds like these,
  In childhood, from this solitary being,
  This helpless wanderer, have perchance receiv'd,
  (A thing more precious far than all that books
  Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
  That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
  In which they found their kindred with a world
  Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
  Who sits at his own door, and like the pear
  Which overhangs his head from the green wall,
  Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
  The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
  Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove
  Of their own kindred, all behold in him
  A silent monitor, which on their minds
  Must needs impress a transitory thought
  Of self-congratulation, to the heart
  Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
  His charters and exemptions; and perchance,
  Though he to no one give the fortitude
  And circumspection needful to preserve
  His present blessings, and to husband up
  The respite of the season, he, at least,
  And 'tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.
 
 
  Yet further. – Many, I believe, there are
  Who live a life of virtuous decency,
  Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
  No self-reproach, who of the moral law
  Establish'd in the land where they abide
  Are strict observers, and not negligent,
  Meanwhile, in any tenderness of heart
  Or act of love to those with whom they dwell,
  Their kindred, and the children of their blood.
  Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
  – But of the poor man ask, the abject poor,
  Go and demand of him, if there be here,
  In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
  And these inevitable charities,
  Wherewith to satisfy the human soul.
  No – man is dear to man: the poorest poor
  Long for some moments in a weary life
  When they can know and feel that they have been
  Themselves the fathers and the dealers out
  Of some small blessings, have been kind to such
  As needed kindness, for this single cause,
  That we have all of us one human heart.
 
 
  – Such pleasure is to one kind Being known
  My Neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
  Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself
  By her own wants, she from her chest of meal
  Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
  Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
  Returning with exhilarated heart,
  Sits by her tire and builds her hope in heav'n.
 
 
  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
  And while, in that vast solitude to which
  The tide of things has led him, he appears
  To breathe and live but for himself alone,
  Unblam'd, uninjur'd, let him bear about
  The good which the benignant law of heaven
  Has hung around him, and, while life is his,
  Still let him prompt the unletter'd Villagers
  To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
 
 
  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
  And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
  The freshness of the vallies, let his blood
  Struggle with frosty air and winter snows,
  And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath
  Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face.
  Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
  Gives the last human interest to his heart.
  May never House, misnamed of industry,
  Make him a captive; for that pent-up din,
  Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
  Be his the natural silence of old age.
 
 
  Let him be free of mountain solitudes,
  And have around him, whether heard or nor,
  The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
  Few are his pleasures; if his eyes, which now
  Have been so long familiar with the earth,
  No more behold the horizontal sun
  Rising or setting, let the light at least
  Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
 
 
  And let him, where and when he will, sit down
  Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
  Of high-way side, and with the little birds
  Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,
  As in the eye of Nature he has liv'd,
  So in the eye of Nature let him die.