Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 7

I wish the press-gang or the drum With its tantara sound would come, And sweep him from the village!

I said not this, because he loves Through the long day to swear and tipple; But for the poor dear sake of one To whom a foul deed he had done, A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!

For this poor crawling helpless wretch Some Horseman who was pa.s.sing by, A penny on the ground had thrown; But the poor Cripple was alone And could not stoop--no help was nigh.

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground For it had long been droughty weather: So with his staff the Cripple wrought Among the dust till he had brought The halfpennies together.

It chanc'd that Andrew pa.s.s'd that way Just at the time; and there he found The Cripple in the mid-day heat Standing alone, and at his feet He saw the penny on the ground.

He stopp'd and took the penny up.

And when the Cripple nearer drew, Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown.

What a man finds is all his own, And so, my Friend, good day to you."

And _hence_ I said, that Andrew's boys Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village!

_The TWO THIEVES, Or the last Stage of AVARICE_.

Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine And the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne; When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

What feats would I work with my magical hand!

Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.

For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves, Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told, There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather Between them, and both go a stealing together.

With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?

It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door?

Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide, And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.

Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.

'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wires Of manifold pleasures and many desires: And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no more Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone; And now with old Daniel you see how it fares You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun Has peer'd o'er the beeches their work is begun: And yet into whatever sin they may fall, This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

They hunt through the street with deliberate tread, And each in his turn is both leader and led; And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam, For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home; Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done, And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd, I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side: Long yet may'st thou live, for a teacher we see That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound: Then all at once the air was still, And showers of hail-stones patter'd round.

Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above, I sate within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green, A fairer bower was never seen.

From year to year the s.p.a.cious floor With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er, You could not lay a hair between: And all the year the bower is green.

But see! where'er the hailstones drop The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze--no breath of air-- Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing.

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

SONG

FOR THE

WANDERING JEW.

Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep.

Though almost with eagle pinion O'er the rocks the Chamois roam.

Yet he has some small dominion Which no doubt he calls his home.

If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less he loves his haven On the bosom of the cliff.

Though the Sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave; Yet he slumbers without motion On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!

Never nearer to the goal, Night and day, I feel the trouble, Of the Wanderer in my soul.

RUTH.

RUTH.

When Ruth was left half desolate, Her Father took another Mate; And so, not seven years old, The slighted Child at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill In thoughtless freedom bold.