By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one s all cottage;
But she, poor woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.
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 scattered 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 beforehand, turf 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 anything 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 vowed 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 watched 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,
She sees the musician, tis all that she sees!
He stands, backed by the wall;-he abates not his din;
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, [her pail ; [ping in, Down which she so often has tripped with His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropAnd a single small cottage, a nest like a From the old and the young, from the dove's [loves. poorest; and there ! [spare. The one only dwelling on earth that she The one-pennied boy has his penny to
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but
they fade,
[shade:
The mist and the river, the hill and the
The stream will not flow, and the hill will
not rise,
[her eyes.
And the colours have all passed away from
Oh, blest are the hearers, and proud be
the hand
[thankful a band;
Of the pleasure it spreads through so
I am glad for him, blind as he is all the
while
[with a smile.
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise
That tall man, a giant in bulk and in | Or is it rather that conceit rapacious is
WHAT crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
A telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky : [little boat, Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
The showman chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square,
And is as happy in his night, for the
heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd;
each stands ready with the fee,
And envies him that's looking-what an
insight must it be !
Yet, showman, where can lie the cause?
Shall thy implement have blame,
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and
is put to shame ?
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame,
Doth she betray us when they're seen! or are they but a name?
[less His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming To overshade than multiply his beams By soft reflection-grateful to the sky, To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense
In languor; or, by nature, for repose
Of panting wood-nymph wearied by the
O lady! fairer in thy poet's sight [chase.
Than fairest spiritual creature of the groves,
Approach-and thus invited crown with
[there are
The noon-tide hour;-though truly some
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid
This venerable tree; for, when the wind
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking
sound
(Above the general roar of woods and crags)
Distinctly heard from far-a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have
deemed)
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost
Haunts this old trunk; lamenting deeds
of which
[wind
The flowery ground is conscious. But no
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;
Not even a zephyr stirs ;-the obnoxious
[down,
Is mute, and, in his silence, would look
O lovely wanderer of the trackless hills,
On thy reclining form with more delight
Than his coevals, in the sheltered vale
Seem to participate, the whilst they view
Their own far stretching arms and leafy
heads
Vividly pictured in some glassy pool, That, for a brief space, checks hurrying stream!
There's joy in the mountains;
There s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;
The rain is over and gone!
YET are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea, the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary sun betook himself to rest,
Then issued vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible god
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her :-oh better wrong and
strife,
the (By nature transient) than such torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move!
Yet witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not; they are what their
birth
Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:
Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors of Aurora's car,
Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.
They dart across my path-but lo, Each ready with a plaintive whine! Said I, "Not half an hour ago Your mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered-"she is dead
I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head.
SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,
COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER. WHERE are they now, those wanton boys? For whose free range the dædal earth Was filled with animated toys, And implements of frolic mirth;
With tools for ready wit to guide;
And ornaments of seemlier pride,
More fresh, more bright, than princes wear,;
For what one moment flung aside,
Another could repair;
What good or evil have they seen
Since I their pastime witnessed here,
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?
I ask-but all is dark between !
Spirits of beauty and of grace!
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye, by a course to nature true,
The sterner judgment can subdue;
And waken a relenting smile
When she encounters fraud or guile;
And sometimes ye can charm away
The inward mischief, or allay,
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find!
They met me in a genial hour,
When universal nature breathed
As with the breath of one sweet flower,
A time to overrule the power
Of discontent, and check the birth
Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife.
The most familiar bane of life
Since parting innocence bequeathed
Mortality to earth!
Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,
Sailed through the sky-the brooks ran
clear;
The lambs from rock to rock were bounding;
With songs the budded groves resounding;
And to my heart is still endeared
The faith with which it then was cheered;
The faith which saw that gladsome pair
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.
Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive,
Kind spirits! may we not believe
That they so happy and so fair,
Through your sweet influence, and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of deadly injury?
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom!
WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,
Her father took another mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom bold.
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