Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume I Part 2

But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad high-way, I met; Along the broad high-way he came, His cheeks with tears were wet.

St.u.r.dy he seemed, though he was sad; And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside, As if he wished himself to hide: Then with his coat he made essay To wipe those briny tears away.

I follow'd him, and said, "My friend What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"

--"Shame on me, Sir! this l.u.s.ty lamb, He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetched him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock."

When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran.

Though little given to care and thought, Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see, And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I numbered a full score, And every year increas'd my store.

Year after year my stock it grew, And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As sweet a flock as ever grazed!

Upon the mountain did they feed; They throve, and we at home did thrive.

--This l.u.s.ty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.

Six children, Sir! had I to feed, Hard labour in a time of need!

My pride was tamed, and in our grief, I of the parish ask'd relief.

They said I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the mountain fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread: "Do this; how can we give to you,"

They cried, "what to the poor is due?"

I sold a sheep as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me it never did me good.

A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had reared With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away!

For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopp'd, Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.

Till thirty were not left alive They dwindled, dwindled, one by one, And I may say that many a time I wished they all were gone: They dwindled one by one away; For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies cross'd my mind, And every man I chanc'd to see, I thought he knew some ill of me.

No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease, within doors or without, And crazily, and wearily I went my work about.

Oft-times I thought to run away; For me it was a woeful day.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more.

Alas! it was an evil time; G.o.d cursed me in my sore distress, I prayed, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock, it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled. Sir, sad sight to see!

From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a weather, and a ewe; And then at last, from three to two; And of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one, And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock; It is the last of all my flock.

LINES

_Left upon a seat in a YEW-TREE, which stands near the Lake of ESTHWAITE, on a desolate part of the sh.o.r.e, yet commanding a beautiful prospect_.

--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the sh.o.r.e, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

--Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o'er and taught this aged tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, I well remember.--He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth, A favored being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow, 'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate And scorn, against all enemies prepared.

All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: he was like a plant Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds, But hung with fruit which no one, that pa.s.sed by, Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once, With indignation did he turn away And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time When Nature had subdued him to herself Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost man!

On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye Is ever on himself, doth look on one, The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!

Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE.

_A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse_.

But that entrance, Mother!

FOSTER-MOTHER.

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

MARIA.

No one.

FOSTER-MOTHER.

My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul!

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With l.u.s.ty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?

Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And reared him at the then Lord Velez' cost.

And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy, but most unteachable-- And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead.

But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn 'twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water, on the stumps of trees.

A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, A grey-haired man--he loved this little boy, The boy loved him--and, when the Friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen: and from that time, Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.

So he became a very learned youth.

But Oh! poor wretch!--he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turned--and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place-- But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.

And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chained in deep discourse, The earth heaved under them with such a groan, That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened; A fever seized him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized And cast into that cell. My husband's father Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart: And once as he was working in the cellar, He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's Who sang a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty.

Leoni doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described: And the young man escaped.

MARIA.

'Tis a sweet tale.

And what became of him?

FOSTER-MOTHER.

He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men.

GOODY BLAKE & HARRY GILL,

A TRUE STORY,