Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 13

A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody.

Of flocks and herds both far and near He is the darling and the joy, And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies p.r.i.c.k their ears, They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.

When near this blasted tree you pa.s.s, Two sods are plainly to be seen Close at its root, and each with gra.s.s Is cover'd fresh and green.

Like turf upon a new-made grave These two green sods together lie, Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind Can these two sods together bind, Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade.

There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove; From b.l.o.o.d.y deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war; They seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.

POEMS ON THE _NAMING OF PLACES_.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

By Persons resident in the country and attached to rural objects, many places will be found unnamed or of unknown names, where little Incidents will have occurred, or feelings been experienced, which will have given to such places a private and peculiar interest. From a wish to give some sort of record to such Incidents or renew the gratification of such Feelings, Names have been given to Places by the Author and some of his Friends, and the following Poems written in consequence.

_POEMS on the NAMING of PLACES_.

1.

It was an April Morning: fresh and clear The Rivulet, delighting in its strength, Ran with a young man's speed, and yet the voice Of waters which the winter had supplied Was soften'd down into a vernal tone.

The spirit of enjoyment and desire, And hopes and wishes, from all living things Went circling, like a mult.i.tude of sounds.

The budding groves appear'd as if in haste To spur the steps of June; as if their shades Of various green were hindrances that stood Between them and their object: yet, meanwhile, There was such deep contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree Yet leafless, seem'd as though the countenance With which it look'd on this delightful day Were native to the summer.--Up the brook I roam'd in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all.

At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard, appear'd the voice Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb, The Shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listen'd, seem'd like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here, But 'twas the foliage of the rocks, the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze: And on a summit, distant a short s.p.a.ce, By any who should look beyond the dell, A single mountain Cottage might be seen.

I gaz'd and gaz'd, and to myself I said, "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee."

--Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.

And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, Years after we are gone and in our graves, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL.

II.

_To JOANNA_.

Amid the smoke of cities did you pa.s.s Your time of early youth, and there you learn'd, From years of quiet industry, to love The living Beings by your own fire-side, With such a strong devotion, that your heart Is slow towards the sympathies of them Who look upon the hills with tenderness, And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

Yet we who are transgressors in this kind, Dwelling retired in our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse However trivial, if you thence are taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times.

While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old Steeple tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask'd, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!

And when will she return to us?" he paus'd, And after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete Idolatry, I like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size, had chisel'd out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest side.

--Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engender'd betwixt malice and true love, I was not both to be so catechiz'd, And this was my reply.--"As it befel, One summer morning we had walk'd abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself.

--'Twas that delightful season, when the broom, Full flower'd, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold."

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks, And when we came in front of that tall rock Which looks towards the East, I there stopp'd short, And trac'd the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower, That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imag'd in the heart.

--When I had gaz'd perhaps two minutes' s.p.a.ce, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laugh'd aloud.

The rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laugh'd again: That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answer'd with a mountain tone: Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice,--old Skiddaw blew His speaking trumpet;--back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone toss'd it from his misty head.

Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smil'd in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplish'd by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch'd With dreams and visionary impulses, Is not for me to tell; but sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish'd To shelter from some object of her fear.

--And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanc'd to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sun-rise, on a calm And silent morning, I sate down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chissel'd out in those rude characters Joanna's name upon the living stone.

And I, and all who dwell by my fire-side Have call'd the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock.

NOTE.

In c.u.mberland and Westmoreland are several Inscriptions upon the native rock which from the wasting of Time and the rudeness of the Workmanship had been mistaken for Runic. They are without doubt Roman.

The Roths, mentioned in this poem, is the River which flowing through the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydole fells into Wyndermere. On Helm-Crag, that impressive single Mountain at the head of the Vale of Grasmere, is a Rock which from most points of view bears a striking resemblance to an Old Woman cowering. Close by this rock is one of those Fissures or Caverns, which in the language of the Country are called Dungeons. The other Mountains either immediately surround the Vale of Grasmere, or belong to the same Cl.u.s.ter.

III.

There is an Eminence,--of these our hills The last that parleys with the setting sun.

We can behold it from our Orchard seat.

And, when at evening we pursue our walk Along the public way, this Cliff, so high Above us, and so distant in its height, Is visible, and often seems to send Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

The meteors make of it a favorite haunt: The star of Jove, so beautiful and large In the mid heav'ns, is never half so fair As when he shines above it. 'Tis in truth The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov'd With such communion, that no place on earth Can ever be a solitude to me, Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.

IV.

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags, A rude and natural causeway, interpos'd Between the water and a winding slope Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern sh.o.r.e Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.