Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2

ELLEN IRWIN,

Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.4

  Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate  Upon the Braes of Kirtle,  Was lovely as a Grecian Maid  Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle.  Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,  And there did they beguile the day  With love and gentle speeches,  Beneath the budding beeches.  From many Knights and many Squires  The Brace had been selected,  And Gordon, fairest of them all,  By Ellen was rejected.  Sad tidings to that noble Youth!  For it may be proclaim'd with truth,  If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely,  The Gordon loves as dearly.  But what is Gordon's beauteous face?  And what are Gordon's crosses  To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes  Upon the verdant mosses?  Alas that ever he was born!  The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn,  Sees them and their caressing,  Beholds them bless'd and blessing.  Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts  That through his brain are travelling,  And, starting up, to Bruce's heart  He launch'd a deadly jav'lin!  Fair Ellen saw it when it came,  And, stepping forth to meet the same,  Did with her body cover  The Youth her chosen lover.  And, falling into Bruce's arms,  Thus died the beauteous Ellen,  Thus from the heart of her true-love  The mortal spear repelling.  And Bruce, as soon as he had slain  The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain,  And fought with rage incessant  Against the Moorish Crescent.  But many days and many months,  And many years ensuing,  This wretched Knight did vainly seek  The death that he was wooing:  So coming back across the wave,  Without a groan on Ellen's grave  His body he extended,  And there his sorrow ended.  Now ye who willingly have heard  The tale I have been telling,  May in Kirkonnel church-yard view  The grave of lovely Ellen:  By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid,  And, for the stone upon his head,  May no rude hand deface it,  And its forlorn 'Hic jacet'.

Strange fits of passion I have known, &c

Strange fits of passion I have known,  And I will dare to tell,  But in the lover's ear alone,  What once to me befel.  When she I lov'd, was strong and gay  And like a rose in June,  I to her cottage bent my way,  Beneath the evening moon.  Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,  All over the wide lea;  My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh  Those paths so dear to me.  And now we reach'd the orchard plot,  And, as we climb'd the hill,  Towards the roof of Lucy's cot  The moon descended still.  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,  Kind Nature's gentlest boon!  And, all the while, my eyes I kept  On the descending moon.  My horse mov'd on; hoof after hoof  He rais'd and never stopp'd:  When down behind the cottage roof  At once the planet dropp'd.  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide  Into a Lover's head —  "O mercy!" to myself I cried,  "If Lucy should be dead!"

SONG

  She dwelt among th' untrodden ways    Beside the springs of Dove,  A Maid whom there were none to praise    And very few to love.  A Violet by a mossy stone    Half-hidden from the Eye!  – Fair, as a star when only one    Is shining in the sky!  She liv'd unknown, and few could know    When Lucy ceas'd to be;  But she is in her Grave, and Oh!    The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal, &c

A slumber did my spirit seal,    I had no human fears:  She seem'd a thing that could not feel    The touch of earthly years.  No motion has she now, no force    She neither hears nor sees  Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course    With rocks and stones and trees!

The WATERFALL and the EGLANTINE

  "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,  Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,  Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self  Between me and my choice!"  A falling Water swoln with snows  Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,  That all bespatter'd with his foam,  And dancing high, and dancing low,  Was living, as a child might know,  In an unhappy home.  "Dost thou presume my course to block?  Off, off! or, puny Thing!  I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock  To which thy fibres cling."  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;  The patient Briar suffer'd long,  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,  Hoping the danger would be pass'd:  But seeing no relief, at last  He venture'd to reply.  "Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!  Why should we dwell in strife?  We who in this, our natal spot,  Once liv'd a happy life!  You stirr'd me on my rocky bed —  What pleasure thro' my veins you spread!  The Summer long from day to day  My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;  Nor was it common gratitude  That did your cares repay."  When Spring came on with bud and bell,  Among these rocks did I  Before you hang my wreath to tell  That gentle days were nigh!  And in the sultry summer hours  I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;  And in my leaves now shed and gone  The linnet lodg'd and for us two  Chaunted his pretty songs when you  Had little voice or none.  But now proud thoughts are in your breast —  What grief is mine you see.  Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest  Together we might be!  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,  Some ornaments to me are left —  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,  With which I in my humble way  Would deck you many a Winter's day,  A happy Eglantine!  What more he said, I cannot tell.  The stream came thundering down the dell  And gallop'd loud and fast;  I listen'd, nor aught else could hear,  The Briar quak'd and much I fear.  Those accents were his last.

The OAK and the BROOM,

A PASTORAL

  His simple truths did Andrew glean  Beside the babbling rills;  A careful student he had been  Among the woods and hills.  One winter's night when through the Trees  The wind was thundering, on his knees  His youngest born did Andrew hold:  And while the rest, a ruddy quire  Were seated round their blazing fire,  This Tale the Shepherd told.  I saw a crag, a lofty stone  As ever tempest beat!  Out of its head an Oak had grown,  A Broom out of its feet.  The time was March, a chearful noon —  The thaw-wind with the breath of June  Breath'd gently from the warm South-west;  When in a voice sedate with age  This Oak, half giant and half sage,  His neighbour thus address'd.  "Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay,  Along this mountain's edge  The Frost hath wrought both night and day,  Wedge driving after wedge.  Look up, and think, above your head  What trouble surely will be bred;  Last night I heard a crash – 'tis true,  The splinters took another road —  I see them yonder – what a load  For such a Thing as you!"  You are preparing as before  To deck your slender shape;  And yet, just three years back – no more —  You had a strange escape.  Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,  It came, you know, with fire and smoke  And hither did it bend its way.  This pond'rous block was caught by me,  And o'er your head, as you may see,  'Tis hanging to this day.  The Thing had better been asleep,  Whatever thing it were,  Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,  That first did plant you there.  For you and your green twigs decoy  The little witless Shepherd-boy  To come and slumber in your bower;  And trust me, on some sultry noon,  Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!  Will perish in one hour.  "From me this friendly warning take" —  – The Broom began to doze,  And thus to keep herself awake  Did gently interpose.  "My thanks for your discourse are due;  That it is true, and more than true,  I know and I have known it long;  Frail is the bond, by which we hold  Our being, be we young or old,  Wise, foolish, weak or strong."  Disasters, do the best we can,  Will reach both great and small;  And he is oft the wisest man,  Who is not wise at all.  For me, why should I wish to roam?  This spot is my paternal home,  It is my pleasant Heritage;  My Father many a happy year  Here spread his careless blossoms, here  Attain'd a good old age.  Even such as his may be may lot.  What cause have I to haunt  My heart with terrors? Am I not  In truth a favor'd plant!  The Spring for me a garland weaves  Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,  And, when the Frost is in the sky,  My branches are so fresh and gay  That You might look on me and say  This plant can never die.  The butterfly, all green and gold,  To me hath often flown,  Here in my Blossoms to behold  Wings lovely as his own.  When grass is chill with rain or dew,  Beneath my shade the mother ewe  Lies with her infant lamb; I see  The love, they to each other make,  And the sweet joy, which they partake,  It is a joy to me.  Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;  The Broom might have pursued  Her speech, until the stars of night  Their journey had renew'd.  But in the branches of the Oak  Two Ravens now began to croak  Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;  And to her own green bower the breeze  That instant brought two stripling Bees  To feed and murmur there.  One night the Wind came from the North  And blew a furious blast,  At break of day I ventur'd forth  And near the Cliff I pass'd.  The storm had fall'n upon the Oak  And struck him with a mighty stroke,  And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away;  And in one hospitable Cleft  The little careless Broom was left  To live for many a day.

LUCY GRAY

  Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,  And when I cross'd the Wild,  I chanc'd to see at break of day  The solitary Child.  No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;  She dwelt on a wild Moor,  The sweetest Thing that ever grew  Beside a human door!  You yet may spy the Fawn at play,  The Hare upon the Green;  But the sweet face of Lucy Gray  Will never more be seen.  "To-night will be a stormy night,  You to the Town must go,  And take a lantern, Child, to light  Your Mother thro' the snow."  "That, Father! will I gladly do;  'Tis scarcely afternoon —  The Minster-clock has just struck two,  And yonder is the Moon."  At this the Father rais'd his hook  And snapp'd a faggot-band;  He plied his work, and Lucy took  The lantern in her hand.  Not blither is the mountain roe,  With many a wanton stroke  Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow  That rises up like smoke.  The storm came on before its time,  She wander'd up and down,  And many a hill did Lucy climb  But never reach'd the Town.  The wretched Parents all that night  Went shouting far and wide;  But there was neither sound nor sight  To serve them for a guide.  At day-break on a hill they stood  That overlook'd the Moor;  And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood  A furlong from their door.  And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd  "In Heaven we all shall meet!"  When in the snow the Mother spied  The print of Lucy's feet.  Then downward from the steep hill's edge  They track'd the footmarks small;  And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,  And by the long stone-wall;  And then an open field they cross'd,  The marks were still the same;  They track'd them on, nor ever lost,  And to the Bridge they came.  They follow'd from the snowy bank  The footmarks, one by one,  Into the middle of the plank,  And further there were none.  Yet some maintain that to this day  She is a living Child,  That you may see sweet Lucy Gray  Upon the lonesome Wild.  O'er rough and smooth she trips along,  And never looks behind;  And sings a solitary song  That whistles in the wind.

The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS,

OR DUNGEON-GILL FORCE,5 A PASTORAL

I

  The valley rings with mirth and joy,  Among the hills the Echoes play  A never, never ending song  To welcome in the May.  The Magpie chatters with delight;  The mountain Raven's youngling Brood  Have left the Mother and the Nest,  And they go rambling east and west  In search of their own food,  Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart  In very wantonness of Heart.

II

  Beneath a rock, upon the grass,  Two Boys are sitting in the sun;  It seems they have no work to do  Or that their work is done.  On pipes of sycamore they play  The fragments of a Christmas Hymn,  Or with that plant which in our dale  We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail  Their rusty Hats they trim:  And thus as happy as the Day,  Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III

  Along the river's stony marge  The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;  The thrush is busy in the Wood,  And carols loud and strong.  A thousand lambs are on the rocks,  All newly born! both earth and sky  Keep jubilee, and more than all,  Those Boys with their green Coronal,  They never hear the cry,  That plaintive cry! which up the hill  Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.

IV

  Said Walter, leaping from the ground,  "Down to the stump of yon old yew  I'll run with you a race." – No more —  Away the Shepherds flew.  They leapt, they ran, and when they came  Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,  Seeing, that he should lose the prize,  "Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries —  James stopp'd with no good will:  Said Walter then, "Your task is here,  'Twill keep you working half a year."

V

  "Till you have cross'd where I shall cross,  Say that you'll neither sleep nor eat."  James proudly took him at his word,  But did not like the feat.  It was a spot, which you may see  If ever you to Langdale go:  Into a chasm a mighty Block  Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;  The gulph is deep below,  And in a bason black and small  Receives a lofty Waterfall.

VI

  With staff in hand across the cleft  The Challenger began his march;  And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain'd  The middle of the arch.  When list! he hears a piteous moan —  Again! his heart within him dies —  His pulse is stopp'd, his breath is lost,  He totters, pale as any ghost,  And, looking down, he spies  A Lamb, that in the pool is pent  Within that black and frightful rent.

VII

  The Lamb had slipp'd into the stream,  And safe without a bruise or wound  The Cataract had borne him down  Into the gulph profound,  His dam had seen him when he fell,  She saw him down the torrent borne;  And while with all a mother's love  She from the lofty rocks above  Sent forth a cry forlorn,  The Lamb, still swimming round and round  Made answer to that plaintive sound.

VIII

  When he had learnt, what thing it was,  That sent this rueful cry; I ween,  The Boy recover'd heart, and told  The sight which he had seen.  Both gladly now deferr'd their task;  Nor was there wanting other aid —  A Poet, one who loves the brooks  Far better than the sages' books,  By chance had thither stray'd;  And there the helpless Lamb he found  By those huge rocks encompass'd round.

IX

  He drew it gently from the pool,  And brought it forth into the light;  The Shepherds met him with his charge  An unexpected sight!  Into their arms the Lamb they took,  Said they, "He's neither maim'd nor scarr'd" —  Then up the steep ascent they hied  And placed him at his Mother's side;  And gently did the Bard  Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,  And bade them better mind their trade.  'Tis said, that some have died for love:  And here and there a church-yard grave is found  In the cold North's unhallow'd ground,  Because the wretched man himself had slain,  His love was such a grievous pain.  And there is one whom I five years have known;  He dwells alone  Upon Helvellyn's side.  He loved – The pretty Barbara died,  And thus he makes his moan:  Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid  When thus his moan he made.  Oh! move thou Cottage from behind that oak  Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,  That in some other way yon smoke  May mount into the sky!  The clouds pass on; they from the Heavens depart:  I look – the sky is empty space;  I know not what I trace;  But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.  O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,  When will that dying murmur be suppress'd?  Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,  It robs my heart of rest.  Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,  Into yon row of willows flit,  Upon that alder sit;  Or sing another song, or chuse another tree  Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,  And there for ever be thy waters chain'd!  For thou dost haunt the air with sounds  That cannot be sustain'd;  If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough  Headlong yon waterfall must come,  Oh let it then be dumb! —  Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.  Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers  (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale)  Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,  And stir not in the gale.  For thus to see thee nodding in the air,  To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,  Thus rise and thus descend,  Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear.  The man who makes this feverish complaint  Is one of giant stature, who could dance  Equipp'd from head to foot in iron mail.  Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine  To store up kindred hours for me, thy face  Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk  Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know  Such happiness as I have known to-day.

POOR SUSAN

  At the corner of Wood-Street, when day-light appears,  There's a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:  Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot and has heard  In the silence of morning the song of the bird.  'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees  A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;  Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,  And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.  Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,  Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail,  And a single small cottage, a nest like a Jove's,  The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.  She looks, and her heart is in Heaven, but they fade,  The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;  The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,  And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes.  Poor Outcast! return – to receive thee once more  The house of thy Father will open its door,  And thou once again, in thy plain russet gown,  May'st hear the thrush sing from a tree of its own.

INSCRIPTION

For the Spot where the HERMITAGE stood

on St. Herbert's Island, Derwent-Water

  If thou in the dear love of some one friend  Hast been so happy, that thou know'st what thoughts  Will, sometimes, in the happiness of love  Make the heart sink, then wilt thou reverence  This quiet spot. – St. Herbert hither came  And here, for many seasons, from the world  Remov'd, and the affections of the world  He dwelt in solitude. He living here,  This island's sole inhabitant! had left  A Fellow-labourer, whom the good Man lov'd  As his own soul; and when within his cave  Alone he knelt before the crucifix  While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore  Peal'd to his orisons, and when he pac'd  Along the beach of this small isle and thought  Of his Companion, he had pray'd that both  Might die in the same moment. Nor in vain  So pray'd he: – as our Chronicles report,  Though here the Hermit number'd his last days,  Far from St. Cuthbert his beloved friend,  Those holy men both died in the same hour.

INSCRIPTION

For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere

  Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen  Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd  Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd  To somewhat of a closer fellowship  With the ideal grace. Yet as it is  Do take it in good part; for he, the poor  Vitruvius of our village, had no help  From the great city; never on the leaves  Of red Morocco folio saw display'd  The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts  Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box,  Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage.  It is a homely pile, yet to these walls  The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here  The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind.  And hither does one Poet sometimes row  His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled  With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern,  A lading which he with his sickle cuts  Among the mountains, and beneath this roof  He makes his summer couch, and here at noon  Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep  Panting beneath the burthen of their wool  Lie round him, even as if they were a part  Of his own household: nor, while from his bed  He through that door-place looks toward the lake  And to the stirring breezes, does he want  Creations lovely as the work of sleep,  Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.

To a SEXTON

  Let thy wheel-barrow alone.  Wherefore, Sexton, piling still  In thy bone-house bone on bone?  Tis already like a hill  In a field of battle made,  Where three thousand skulls are laid.  – These died in peace each with the other,  Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.  Mark the spot to which I point!  From this platform eight feet square  Take not even a finger-joint:  Andrew's whole fire-side is there.  Here, alone, before thine eyes,  Simon's sickly Daughter lies  From weakness, now, and pain defended,  Whom he twenty winters tended.  Look but at the gardener's pride,  How he glories, when he sees  Roses, lilies, side by side,  Violets in families.  By the heart of Man, his tears,  By his hopes and by his fears,  Thou, old Grey-beard! art the Warden  Of a far superior garden.  Thus then, each to other dear,  Let them all in quiet lie,  Andrew there and Susan here,  Neighbours in mortality.  And should I live through sun and rain  Seven widow'd years without my Jane,  O Sexton, do not then remove her,  Let one grave hold the Lov'd and Lover!

ANDREW JONES

  I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed  His children up to waste and pillage.  I wish the press-gang or the drum  With its tantara sound would come,  And sweep him from the village!  I said not this, because he loves  Through the long day to swear and tipple;  But for the poor dear sake of one  To whom a foul deed he had done,  A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!  For this poor crawling helpless wretch  Some Horseman who was passing by,  A penny on the ground had thrown;  But the poor Cripple was alone  And could not stoop – no help was nigh.  Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground  For it had long been droughty weather:  So with his staff the Cripple wrought  Among the dust till he had brought  The halfpennies together.  It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way  Just at the time; and there he found  The Cripple in the mid-day heat  Standing alone, and at his feet  He saw the penny on the ground.  He stopp'd and took the penny up.  And when the Cripple nearer drew,  Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown.  What a man finds is all his own,  And so, my Friend, good day to you."  And hence I said, that Andrew's boys  Will all be train'd to waste and pillage;  And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum  With its tantara sound, would come  And sweep him from the village!

The TWO THIEVES,

Or the last Stage of AVARICE

  Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine  And the skill which He learn'd on the Banks of the Tyne;  When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose  For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose.  What feats would I work with my magical hand!  Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land  And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls  Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.  The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair  Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.  For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves,  Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!  Little Dan is unbreech'd, he is three birth-days old,  His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,  There's ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather  Between them, and both go a stealing together.  With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?  It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman's door?  Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,  And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.  Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye  Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.  'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,  But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.  Dan once had a heart which was mov'd by the wires  Of manifold pleasures and many desires:  And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'Twas no more  Than treading a path trod by thousands before.  'Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one  Who went something farther than others have gone;  And now with old Daniel you see how it fares  You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.  The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun  Has peer'd o'er the beeches their work is begun:  And yet into whatever sin they may fall,  This Child but half knows it and that not at all.  They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,  And each in his turn is both leader and led;  And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,  Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.  Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam,  For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;  Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done,  And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one.  Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey'd,  I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:  Long yet may'st thou live, for a teacher we see  That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.  A whirl-blast from behind the hill  Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound:  Then all at once the air was still,  And showers of hail-stones patter'd round.  Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above,  I sate within an undergrove  Of tallest hollies, tall and green,  A fairer bower was never seen.  From year to year the spacious floor  With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er,  You could not lay a hair between:  And all the year the bower is green.  But see! where'er the hailstones drop  The wither'd leaves all skip and hop,  There's not a breeze – no breath of air —  Yet here, and there, and every where  Along the floor, beneath the shade  By those embowering hollies made,  The leaves in myriads jump and spring,  As if with pipes and music rare  Some Robin Good-fellow were there,  And all those leaves, that jump and spring,  Were each a joyous, living thing.  Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease  That I may never cease to find,  Even in appearances like these  Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!