Read Ebook: Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems 1800 Volume 1 by Wordsworth William

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In distant countries I have been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone. 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. Sturdy 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 lusty 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 lusty 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; God 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

--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 passed 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.

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 lusty 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,

Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still. Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, 'Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, His voice was like the voice of three. Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who pass'd her door, Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, And then her three hours' work at night! Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. --This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide.

But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh! then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead; Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed, And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout, And scatter'd many a lusty splinter, And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile before hand, wood or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

Now when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake, And vow'd that she should be detected, And he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take, And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watch'd to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. --He hears a noise--he's all awake-- Again?--on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps--'Tis Goody Blake, She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her; Stick after stick did Goody pull, He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The bye-road back again to take, He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd To God that is the judge of all.

She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm-- "God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray, Young Harry heard what she had said; And icy-cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three.

'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinn'd; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say 'tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

There is a thorn; it looks so old, In truth you'd find it hard to say, How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect this aged thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor thorn! they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they were bent With plain and manifest intent, To drag it to the ground; And all had join'd in one endeavour To bury this poor thorn for ever.

High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain-path, This thorn you on your left espy; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water, never dry; I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

And close beside this aged thorn, There is a fresh and lovely sight, A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, Just half a foot in height. All lovely colours there you see, All colours that were ever seen, And mossy network too is there, As if by hand of lady fair The work had woven been, And cups, the darlings of the eye, So deep is their vermillion dye.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there! Of olive green and scarlet bright, In spikes, in branches, and in stars, Green, red, and pearly white. This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Which close beside the thorn you see, So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, Is like an infant's grave in size As like as like can be: But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair.

Now would you see this aged thorn, This pond and beauteous hill of moss, You must take care and chuse your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits, between the heap That's like an infant's grave in size And that same pond of which I spoke, A woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, "Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

At all times of the day and night This wretched woman thither goes, And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there beside the thorn she sits When the blue day-light's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, "Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery;"

"Now wherefore thus, by day and night, In rain, in tempest, and in snow Thus to the dreary mountain-top Does this poor woman go? And why sits she beside the thorn When the blue day-light's in the sky, Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And wherefore does she cry?-- Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows, But if you'd gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The heap that's like an infant's grave, The pond--and thorn, so old and grey. Pass by her door--tis seldom shut-- And if you see her in her hut, Then to the spot away!-- I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there.

"But wherefore to the mountain-top, Can this unhappy woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?" Nay rack your brain--'tis all in vain, I'll tell you every thing I know; But to the thorn and to the pond Which is a little step beyond, I wish that you would go: Perhaps when you are at the place You something of her tale may trace.

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