Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 11

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 gra.s.s were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, G.o.d 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 ap.r.o.ns and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

The bason of box-wood, [9] just six months before, Had stood on the table at Timothy's door, A Coffin through Timothy's threshold had pa.s.s'd, One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.

[Footnote 9: In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a bason full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.]

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 c.u.mBERLAND BEGGAR.

_A DESCRIPTION._

_The OLD c.u.mBERLAND BEGGAR, A DESCRIPTION_.

The cla.s.s 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.s.

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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.s'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 pa.s.s 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 fort.i.tude And circ.u.mspection 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 pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.s, 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 gra.s.sy 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.

_RURAL ARCHITECTURE_.

There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Sh.o.r.e, Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb, and there they built up without mortar or lime A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay, They built him and christen'd him all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones.