Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) Part 6

Oh joy for her! when e'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout, And scatter'd many a l.u.s.ty splinter, And many a rotten bough about.

Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile before-hand, wood or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?

And now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected This trespa.s.s of old Goody Blake, And vow'd that she should be detected, And he on her would vengeance take.

And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take, And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble-land.

--He hears a noise--he's all awake-- 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 ap.r.o.n 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 G.o.d that is the judge of all.

She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm-- "G.o.d! 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 cas.e.m.e.nt 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 gra.s.s 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 sc.r.a.p of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor.

This sc.r.a.p 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 have 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.