Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798)

THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

FOSTER-MOTHERI never saw the man whom you describe.MARIA'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarlyAs mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.FOSTER-MOTHERNow blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady,As often as I think of those dear timesWhen you two little ones would stand at eveOn each side of my chair, and make me learnAll you had learnt in the day; and how to talkIn gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you —'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been.MARIAO my dear Mother! this strange man has left meTroubled with wilder fancies, than the moonBreeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,Till lost in inward vision, with wet eyeShe gazes idly! – But that entrance, Mother!FOSTER-MOTHERCan no one hear? It is a perilous tale!MARIANo 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 sawWith lusty arm. You know that huge round beamWhich props the hanging wall of the old chapel?Beneath that tree, while yet it was a treeHe found a baby wrapt in mosses, linedWith thistle-beards, and such small locks of woolAs 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 playTo get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant themWith 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 prayWith 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 ChapelThey stood together, chained in deep discourse,The earth heaved under them with such a groan,That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallenRight on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;A fever seized him, and he made confessionOf all the heretical and lawless talkWhich brought this judgment: so the youth was seizedAnd cast into that hole. My husband's fatherSobbed 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 sung 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.He always doted on the youth, and nowHis love grew desperate; and defying death,He made that cunning entrance I described:And the young man escaped.MARIA                           'Tis a sweet tale:Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. —And what became of him?FOSTER-MOTHER                        He went on ship-boardWith those bold voyagers, who made discoveryOf golden lands. Leoni's younger brotherWent 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 moonlightUp 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.

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT

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