Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) Part 10

This is the process of our love and wisdom, To each poor brother who offends against us-- Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty?

Is this the only cure? Merciful G.o.d?

Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up By ignorance and parching poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks-- And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O nature!

Healest thy wandering and distempered child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

THE MAD MOTHER.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, The sun has burnt her coal-black hair, Her eye-brows have a rusty stain, And she came far from over the main.

She has a baby on her arm, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, And on the green-wood stone, She talked and sung the woods among; And it was in the English tongue.

"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad, But nay, my heart is far too glad; And I am happy when I sing Full many a sad and doleful thing: Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

I pray thee have no fear of me, But, safe as in a cradle, here My lovely baby! thou shalt be, To thee I know too much I owe; I cannot work thee any woe.

A fire was once within my brain; And in my head a dull, dull pain; And fiendish faces one, two, three, Hung at my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and pulled at me.

But then there came a sight of joy; It came at once to do me good; I waked, and saw my little boy, My little boy of flesh and blood; Oh joy for me that sight to see!

For he was here, and only he.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

It cools my blood; it cools my brain; Thy lips I feel them, baby! they Draw from my heart the pain away.

Oh! press me with thy little hand; It loosens something at my chest; About that tight and deadly band I feel thy little fingers press'd.

The breeze I see is in the tree; It comes to cool my babe and me.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

Thou art thy mother's only joy; And do not dread the waves below, When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go; The high crag cannot work me harm, Nor leaping torrents when they howl; The babe I carry on my arm, He saves for me my precious soul; Then happy lie, for blest am I; Without me my sweet babe would die.

Then do not fear, my boy! for thee Bold as a lion I will be; And I will always be thy guide, Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

I'll build an Indian bower; I know The leaves that make the softest bed: And if from me thou wilt not go, But still be true 'till I am dead, My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing, As merry as the birds in spring.

Thy father cares not for my breast, 'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest: 'Tis all thine own! and if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!

My beauty, little child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown?

'Tis well for me; thou canst not see How pale and wan it else would be.

Dread not their taunts, my little life!

I am thy father's wedded wife; And underneath the spreading tree We two will live in honesty.

If his sweet boy he could forsake, With me he never would have stay'd: From him no harm my babe can take, But he, poor man! is wretched made, And every day we two will pray For him that's gone and far away.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

My little babe! thy lips are still, And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill.

--Where art thou gone my own dear child?

What wicked looks are those I see?

Alas! alas! that look so wild, It never, never came from me: If thou art mad, my pretty lad, Then I must be for ever sad.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!

For I thy own dear mother am.

My love for thee has well been tried: I've sought thy father far and wide.

I know the poisons of the shade, I know the earth-nuts fit for food; Then, pretty dear, be not afraid; We'll find thy father in the wood.

Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!

And there, my babe; we'll live for aye.

THE IDIOT BOY.

Tis eight o'clock,--a clear March night, The moon is up--the sky is blue, The owlet in the moonlight air, He shouts from n.o.body knows where; He lengthens out his lonely shout, Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

--Why bustle thus about your door, What means this bustle, Betty Foy?

Why are you in this mighty fret?

And why on horseback have you set Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

Beneath the moon that s.h.i.+nes so bright, Till she is tired, let Betty Foy With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle; But wherefore set upon a saddle Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

There's scarce a soul that's out of bed; Good Betty! put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you, But, Betty! what has he to do With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

The world will say 'tis very idle, Bethink you of the time of night; There's not a mother, no not one, But when she hears what you have done, Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.

But Betty's bent on her intent, For her good neighbour, Susan Gale, Old Susan, she who dwells alone, Is sick, and makes a piteous moan, As if her very life would fail.

There's not a house within a mile.

No hand to help them in distress: Old Susan lies a bed in pain, And sorely puzzled are the twain, For what she ails they cannot guess.

And Betty's husband's at the wood, Where by the week he doth abide, A woodman in the distant vale; There's none to help poor Susan Gale, What must be done? what will betide?

And Betty from the lane has fetched Her pony, that is mild and good, Whether he be in joy or pain, Feeding at will along the lane, Or bringing f.a.ggots from the wood.

And he is all in travelling trim, And by the moonlight, Betty Foy Has up upon the saddle set, The like was never heard of yet, Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

And he must post without delay Across the bridge that's in the dale, And by the church, and o'er the down, To bring a doctor from the town, Or she will die, old Susan Gale.

There is no need of boot or spur, There is no need of whip or wand, For Johnny has his holly-bough, And with a hurly-burly now He shakes the green bough in his hand.

And Betty o'er and o'er has told The boy who is her best delight, Both what to follow, what to shun, What do, and what to leave undone, How turn to left, and how to right.

And Betty's most especial charge, Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you "Come home again, nor stop at all, "Come home again, whate'er befal, "My Johnny do, I pray you do."

To this did Johnny answer make, Both with his head, and with his hand, And proudly shook the bridle too, And then! his words were not a few, Which Betty well could understand.

And now that Johnny is just going, Though Betty's in a mighty flurry, She gently pats the pony's side, On which her idiot boy must ride, And seems no longer in a hurry.

But when the pony moved his legs, Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!

For joy he cannot hold the bridle, For joy his head and heels are idle, He's idle all for very joy.

And while the pony moves his legs, In Johnny's left-hand you may see, The green bough's motionless and dead; The moon that s.h.i.+nes above his head Is not more still and mute than he.

His heart it was so full of glee, That till full fifty yards were gone, He quite forgot his holly whip, And all his skill in horsemans.h.i.+p, Oh! happy, happy, happy John.