Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 10

NUTTING.

--It seems a day, One of those heavenly days which cannot die, When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, [1]

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.

[Footnote 1: The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.]

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 cl.u.s.ters 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, 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 un.o.bserv'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 gra.s.s is soft, and green as gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s is tender gra.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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.