Giddy she seem'd, and sure there was A trouble in her eye. But ere she from the church door stepp'd, She smiled, and smiled, and pass'd it off And if her heart was not at ease, This was her constant cry"It was a wicked woman's curseGod's good, and what care I?" There was a hurry in her looks, Her struggles she redoubled: "It was a wicked woman's curse, And why should I be troubled ?" These tears will come-I dandled her When 'twas the merest fairyGood creature! and she hid it all: She told it not to Mary. But Mary heard the tale: her arms I saw young Edward by himself Stalk fast adown the lea, He snatch'd a stick from every fence, A twig from every tree. He snapp'd them still with hand or knee, He knew not what to do! You see, good sir! that single hill? Now Ellen was a darling love In all his joys and cares: And Ellen's name and Mary's name Fast link'd they both together came, Whene'er he said his prayers. And in the moment of his prayers Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy He reach'd his home, and by his looks And they clung round him with their arms, And Mary could not check her tears, Dear Ellen did not weep at all, But closelier did she cling, And turn'd her face, and look'd as if She saw some frightful thing. PART IV. To see a man tread over graves You see that grave? The Lord he gives, O, sir! the child of my old age Except that grave, you scarce see one I'd rather dance upon them all "Ay, sexton! 'tis a touching tale." And Mary's sister told it me, For three good hours and more; Well! it pass'd off! the gentle Ellen To market she on market days, To church on Sundays came; All seem'd the same: all seem'd so, sir! But all was not the same! Had Ellen lost her mirth? O! no! But she was seldom cheerful; And Edward look'd as if he thought That Ellen's mirth was fearful. When by herself, she to herself Must sing some merry rhyme; She could not now be glad for hours, Yet silent all the time. And when she soothed her friend, through all Her soothing words 'twas plain She had a sore grief of her own, A haunting in her brain. And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! Then harder, till her grasp at length And once her both arms suddenly Round Mary's neck she flung, And her heart panted, and she felt The words upon her tongue. She felt them coming, but no power So gentle Ellen now no more Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways Drove Edward wild and weary. Lingering he raised his latch at eve, Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet Home was no home to him. One evening he took up a book, And nothing in it read; Then flung it down, and groaning, cried, "O! Heaven! that I were dead." Mary look'd up into his face, And nothing to him said; She tried to smile, and on his arm Mournfully lean'd her head. And he burst into tears, and fell 'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring Was late uncommonly. And then the hot days, all at once, It happen'd then, ('twas in the bower I scarce know how you should,) No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh To any pasture plot; But cluster'd near the chattering brook, Those hollies of themselves a shape A close, round arbour; and it stands Within this arbour, which was sti!) With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, Just as the first bell rung. 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell. His limbs along the moss, his head "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, See, dearest Ellen! see! "Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your e'e; "A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory, too; Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Round that small orb, so blue." And then they argued of those rays, Says this, "They're mostly green;" says that, "They're amber-like to me." So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts But soon they heard his hard quick pants, "A mother, too!" these selfsame words His face was drawn back on itself, Both groan'd at once, for both knew well That hath been just struck blind. He sat upright; and ere the dream "O God, forgive me!" he exclaim'd, Then Ellen shriek'd, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; And Mary shiver'd, where she sat, And never she smiled after. Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. Tomorrow! and to-morrow! and to-morrow! DEJECTION; AN ODE. Late, late yestreen, I saw the new Moon, I. WELL! if the bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, For lo! the new moon winter-bright! The coming on of rain and squally blast. And O! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green; I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail, And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win What, and wherein it doth exist, Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, From my own nature all the natural manThis was my sole resource, my only plan; Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain tairn, or blasted tree, The passion and the life, whose fountains are Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, within. IV. O lady! we receive but what we give, And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be! Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! *Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the storm wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. "Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: O simple spirit, guided from above, ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUTCHESS OF ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER "PAS- And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! With well-strung arm, that first preserved his child, SPLENDOUR'S fondly foster'd child! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Enchanting music lull'd your infant ear, Detain'd your eye from nature: stately vests, And yet, free nature's uncorrupted child, O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! A heart as sensitive to joy and fear; Yet these delight to celebrate The doom of ignorance and penury! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a mother! That most holy name, I may not vilely prostitute to those You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight thought, each nascent feeling read, Which you yourself created. O! delight! A second time to be a mother, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing sense to roll, The angel of the earth, who, while he guides A moment turn'd his awful face away; Blest intuitions and communions fleet O beautiful! O nature's child! 'Twas thence you hail'd the platform wild, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name id left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, And sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, o vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: he bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through th' accustom'd mead; Will build me up a mossy seat; And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole! The present works of present man- TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR. COMPOSED IN 1796. A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep, Calm pensiveness might muse herself to sleep; Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, That rustling on the bushy clift above, With melancholy bleat of anxious love, Made meek inquiry for her wandering lamb. Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round, Wide and more wide, increasing without bound! O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark To some lone mansion, in some woody dale, Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, The hill of knowledge I essay'd to trace; That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour To glad and fertilize the subject plains; That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, And many a fancy-blest and holy sod, Where inspiration, his diviner strains Low murmuring, lay; and starting from the rocks Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage! O meek retiring spirit! we will climb, And oft the melancholy theme supply,) eye Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole: Then, when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth, Now may Heaven realize this vision bright! |