Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume Ii Part 6

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 pa.s.s on; they from the Heavens depart: I look--the sky is empty s.p.a.ce; 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 pa.s.s'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 pa.s.s'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 fellows.h.i.+p 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 s.e.xTON_.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone.

Wherefore, s.e.xton, 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 s.e.xton, 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.