Lyrical Ballads, with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 1

A TRUE STORY,

 
  Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter?
  What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
  That evermore his teeth they chatter,
  Chatter, chatter, chatter still.
  Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
  Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
  He has a blanket on his back,
  And coats enough to smother nine.
 
 
  In March, December, and in July,
  'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
  The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
  His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
  At night, at morning, and at noon,
  'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
  Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
  His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
 
 
  Young Harry was a lusty drover,
  And who so stout of limb as he?
  His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,
  His voice was like the voice of three.
  Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,
  Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
  And any man who pass'd her door,
  Might see how poor a hut she had.
 
 
  All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
  And then her three hours' work at night!
  Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
  It would not pay for candle-light.
  – This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,
  Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
  And in that country coals are dear,
  For they come far by wind and tide.
 
 
  By the same fire to boil their pottage,
  Two poor old dames as I have known,
  Will often live in one small cottage,
  But she, poor woman, dwelt 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 scatter'd 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 before hand, wood 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 any thing 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 vow'd 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 watch'd 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.
  When with her load she turned about,
  The bye-road back again to take,
  He started forward with a shout,
  And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.
 
 
  And fiercely by the arm he took her,
  And by the arm he held her fast,
  And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
  And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"
  Then Goody, who had nothing said,
  Her bundle from her lap let fall;
  And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd
  To God that is the judge of all.
 
 
  She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing,
  While Harry held her by the arm —
  "God! who art never out of hearing,
  O may he never more be warm!"
  The cold, cold moon above her head,
  Thus on her knees did Goody pray,
  Young Harry heard what she had said;
  And icy-cold he turned away.
 
 
  He went complaining all the morrow
  That he was cold and very chill:
  His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
  Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
  That day he wore a riding-coat,
  But not a whit the warmer he:
  Another was on Thursday brought,
  And ere the Sabbath he had three.
 
 
  'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
  And blankets were about him pinn'd;
  Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,
  Like a loose casement in the wind.
  And Harry's flesh it fell away;
  And all who see him say 'tis plain,
  That, live as long as live he may,
  He never will be warm again.
 
 
  No word to any man he utters,
  A-bed or up, to young or old;
  But ever to himself he mutters,
  "Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
  A-bed or up, by night or day;
  His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
  Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
  Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.
 

THE THORN

I

 
  There is a thorn; it looks so old,
  In truth you'd find it hard to say,
  How it could ever have been young,
  It looks so old and grey.
  Not higher than a two years' child
  It stands erect this aged thorn;
  No leaves it has, no thorny points;
  It is a mass of knotted joints,
  A wretched thing forlorn.
  It stands erect, and like a stone
  With lichens it is overgrown.
 

II

 
  Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
  With lichens to the very top,
  And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
  A melancholy crop:
  Up from the earth these mosses creep,
  And this poor thorn! they clasp it round
  So close, you'd say that they were bent
  With plain and manifest intent,
  To drag it to the ground;
  And all had join'd in one endeavour
  To bury this poor thorn for ever.
 

III

 
  High on a mountain's highest ridge,
  Where oft the stormy winter gale
  Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
  It sweeps from vale to vale;
  Not five yards from the mountain-path,
  This thorn you on your left espy;
  And to the left, three yards beyond,
  You see a little muddy pond
  Of water, never dry;
  I've measured it from side to side:
  'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
 

IV

 
  And close beside this aged thorn,
  There is a fresh and lovely sight,
  A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
  Just half a foot in height.
  All lovely colours there you see,
  All colours that were ever seen,
  And mossy network too is there,
  As if by hand of lady fair
  The work had woven been,
  And cups, the darlings of the eye,
  So deep is their vermillion dye.
 

V

 
  Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
  Of olive green and scarlet bright,
  In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
  Green, red, and pearly white.
  This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
  Which close beside the thorn you see,
  So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
  Is like an infant's grave in size
  As like as like can be:
  But never, never any where,
  An infant's grave was half so fair.
 

VI

 
  Now would you see this aged thorn,
  This pond and beauteous hill of moss,
  You must take care and chuse your time
  The mountain when to cross.
  For oft there sits, between the heap
  That's like an infant's grave in size
  And that same pond of which I spoke,
  A woman in a scarlet cloak,
  And to herself she cries,
  "Oh misery! oh misery!
  Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
 

VII

 
  At all times of the day and night
  This wretched woman thither goes,
  And she is known to every star,
  And every wind that blows;
  And there beside the thorn she sits
  When the blue day-light's in the skies,
  And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
  Or frosty air is keen and still,
  And to herself she cries,
  "Oh misery! oh misery!
  Oh woe is me! oh misery;"
 

VIII

 
  "Now wherefore thus, by day and night,
  In rain, in tempest, and in snow
  Thus to the dreary mountain-top
  Does this poor woman go?
  And why sits she beside the thorn
  When the blue day-light's in the sky,
  Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
  Or frosty air is keen and still,
  And wherefore does she cry? —
  Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
  Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
 

IX

 
  I cannot tell; I wish I could;
  For the true reason no one knows,
  But if you'd gladly view the spot,
  The spot to which she goes;
  The heap that's like an infant's grave,
  The pond – and thorn, so old and grey.
  Pass by her door – tis seldom shut —
  And if you see her in her hut,
  Then to the spot away! —
  I never heard of such as dare
  Approach the spot when she is there.
 

X

 
  "But wherefore to the mountain-top,
  Can this unhappy woman go,
  Whatever star is in the skies,
  Whatever wind may blow?"
  Nay rack your brain – 'tis all in vain,
  I'll tell you every thing I know;
  But to the thorn and to the pond
  Which is a little step beyond,
  I wish that you would go:
  Perhaps when you are at the place
  You something of her tale may trace.
 

XI

 
  I'll give you the best help I can:
  Before you up the mountain go,
  Up to the dreary mountain-top,
  I'll tell you all I know.
  'Tis now some two and twenty years,
  Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
  Gave with a maiden's true good will
  Her company to Stephen Hill;
  And she was blithe and gay,
  And she was happy, happy still
  Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill.
 

XII

 
  And they had fix'd the wedding-day,
  The morning that must wed them both;
  But Stephen to another maid
  Had sworn another oath;
  And with this other maid to church
  Unthinking Stephen went —
  Poor Martha! on that woful day
  A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
  Into her bones was sent:
  It dried her body like a cinder,
  And almost turn'd her brain to tinder.
 

XII

 
  They say, full six months after this,
  While yet the summer leaves were green,
  She to the mountain-top would go,
  And there was often seen.
  'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
  As now to any eye was plain;
  She was with child, and she was mad,
  Yet often she was sober sad
  From her exceeding pain.
  Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather,
  That he had died, that cruel father!
 

XIV

 
  Sad case for such a brain to hold
  Communion with a stirring child!
  Sad case, as you may think, for one
  Who had a brain so wild!
  Last Christmas when we talked of this,
  Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
  That in her womb the infant wrought
  About its mother's heart, and brought
  Her senses back again:
  And when at last her time drew near,
  Her looks were calm, her senses clear.
 

XV

 
  No more I know, I wish I did,
  And I would tell it all to you;
  For what became of this poor child
  There's none that ever knew:
  And if a child was born or no,
  There's no one that could ever tell
  And if 'twas born alive or dead,
  There's no one knows, as I have said,
  But some remember well,
  That Martha Ray about this time
  Would up the mountain often climb.
 

XVI

 
  And all that winter, when at night
  The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
  'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
  The church-yard path to seek:
  For many a time and oft were heard
  Cries coming from the mountain-head,
  Some plainly living voices were,
  And others, I've heard many swear,
  Were voices of the dead:
  I cannot think, whate'er they say,
  They had to do with Martha Ray.
 

XVII

 
  But that she goes to this old thorn,
  The thorn which I've described to you,
  And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
  I will be sworn is true.
  For one day with my telescope,
  To view the ocean wide and bright,
  When to this country first I came,
  Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
  I climbed the mountain's height:
  A storm came on, and I could see
  No object higher than my knee.
 

XVIII

 
  'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
  No screen, no fence could I discover,
  And then the wind! in faith, it was
  A wind full ten times over.
  Hooked around, I thought I saw
  A jutting crag, and off I ran,
  Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
  The shelter of the crag to gain,
  And, as I am a man,
  Instead of jutting crag, I found
  A woman seated on the ground.
 

XIX

 
  I did not speak – I saw her face,
  In truth it was enough for me;
  I turned about and heard her cry,
  "O misery! O misery!"
  And there she sits, until the moon
  Through half the clear blue sky will go,
  And when the little breezes make
  The waters of the pond to shake,
  As all the country know
  She shudders, and you hear her cry,
  "Oh misery! oh misery!"
 

XX

 
  "But what's the thorn? and what's the pond?
  And what's the hill of moss to her?
  And what's the creeping breeze that comes
  The little pond to stir?"
  I cannot tell; but some will say
  She hanged her baby on the tree,
  Some say she drowned it in the pond,
  Which is a little step beyond,
  But all and each agree,
  The little babe was buried there,
  Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
 

XXI

 
  I've heard, the moss is spotted red
  With drops of that poor infant's blood;
  But kill a new-born infant thus!
  I do not think she could.
  Some say, if to the pond you go,
  And fix on it a steady view,
  The shadow of a babe you trace,
  A baby and a baby's face,
  And that it looks at you;
  Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
  The baby looks at you again.
 

XXII

 
  And some had sworn an oath that she
  Should be to public justice brought;
  And for the little infant's bones
  With spades they would have sought.
  But then the beauteous bill of moss
  Before their eyes began to stir;
  And for full fifty yards around,
  The grass it shook upon the ground;
  But all do still aver
  The little babe is buried there.
  Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
 

XXIII

 
  I cannot tell how this may be,
  But plain it is, the thorn is bound
  With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
  To drag it to the ground.
  And this I know, full many a time,
  When she was on the mountain high,
  By day, and in the silent night;
  When all the stars shone clear and bright,
  That I have heard her cry,
  "Oh misery! oh misery!
  O woe is me! oh misery!"
 

WE ARE SEVEN

 
  A simple child, dear brother Jim,
  That lightly draws its breath,
  And feels its life in every limb,
  What should it know of death?
 
 
  I met a little cottage girl,
  She was eight years old, she said;
  Her hair was thick with many a curl
  That cluster'd round her head.
 
 
  She had a rustic, woodland air,
  And she was wildly clad;
  Her eyes were fair, and very fair,
  – Her beauty made me glad.
 
 
  "Sisters and brothers, little maid,
  How many may you be?"
  "How many? seven in all," she said,
  And wondering looked at me.
 
 
  "And where are they, I pray you tell?"
  She answered, "Seven are we,
  And two of us at Conway dwell,
  And two are gone to sea."
 
 
  "Two of us in the church-yard lie,
  My sister and my brother,
  And in the church-yard cottage, I
  Dwell near them with my mother."
 
 
  "You say that two at Conway dwell,
  And two are gone to sea,
  Yet you are seven; I pray you tell
  Sweet Maid, how this may be?"
 
 
  Then did the little Maid reply,
  "Seven boys and girls are we;
  Two of us in the church-yard lie,
  Beneath the church-yard tree."
 
 
  "You run about, my little maid,
  Your limbs they are alive;
  If two are in the church-yard laid,
  Then ye are only five."
 
 
  "Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
  The little Maid replied,
  "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
  And they are side by side."
 
 
  "My stockings there I often knit,
  My 'kerchief there I hem;
  And there upon the ground I sit —
  I sit and sing to them."
 
 
  "And often after sunset, Sir,
  When it is light and fair,
  I take my little porringer,
  And eat my supper there."
 
 
  "The first that died was little Jane;
  In bed she moaning lay,
  Till God released her of her pain,
  And then she went away."
 
 
  "So in the church-yard she was laid,
  And all the summer dry,
  Together round her grave we played,
  My brother John and I."
 
 
  "And when the ground was white with snow,
  And I could run and slide,
  My brother John was forced to go,
  And he lies by her side."
 
 
  "How many are you then," said I,
  "If they two are in Heaven?"
  The little Maiden did reply,
  "O Master! we are seven."
 
 
  "But they are dead; those two are dead!
  Their spirits are in heaven!"
  'Twas throwing words away; for still
  The little Maid would have her will,
  And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
 

ANECDOTE for FATHERS,

Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught

 
  I have a boy of five years old,
  His face is fair and fresh to see;
  His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,
  And dearly he loves me.
 
 
  One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
  Our quiet house all full in view,
  And held such intermitted talk
  As we are wont to do.
 
 
  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
  I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
  My pleasant home, when Spring began,
  A long, long year before.
 
 
  A day it was when I could bear
  To think, and think, and think again;
  With so much happiness to spare,
  I could not feel a pain.
 
 
  My boy was by my side, so slim
  And graceful in his rustic dress!
  And oftentimes I talked to him
  In very idleness.
 
 
  The young lambs ran a pretty race;
  The morning sun shone bright and warm;
  "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
  And so is Liswyn farm."
 
 
  "My little boy, which like you more,"
  I said and took him by the arm —
  "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
  Or here at Liswyn farm?"
 
 
  "And tell me, had you rather be,"
  I said and held-him by the arm,
  "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
  Or here at Liswyn farm?"
 
 
  In careless mood he looked at me,
  While still I held him by the arm,
  And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
  Than here at Liswyn farm."
 
 
  "Now, little Edward, say why so;
  My little Edward, tell me why;"
  "I cannot tell, I do not know."
  "Why this is strange," said I.
 
 
  "For, here are woods and green hills warm:
  There surely must some reason be
  Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,
  For Kilve by the green sea."
 
 
  At this, my boy hung down his head,
  He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;
  And five times to the child I said,
  "Why, Edward, tell me, why?"
 
 
  His head he raised – there was in sight,
  It caught his eye, he saw it plain —
  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
  A broad and gilded vane.
 
 
  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
  And thus to me he made reply;
  "At Kilve there was no weather-cock,
  And that's the reason why."
 
 
  Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart
  For better lore would seldom yearn
  Could I but teach the hundredth part
  Of what from thee I learn.
 

LINES

Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed

 
  It is the first mild day of March:
  Each minute sweeter than before,
  The red-breast sings from the tall larch
  That stands beside our door.
 
 
  There is a blessing in the air,
  Which seems a sense of joy to yield
  To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
  And grass in the green field.
 
 
  My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
  Now that our morning meal is done,
  Make haste, your morning task resign;
  Come forth and feel the sun.
 
 
  Edward will come with you, and pray,
  Put on with speed your woodland dress,
  And bring no book, for this one day
  We'll give to idleness.
 
 
  No joyless forms shall regulate
  Our living Calendar:
  We from to-day, my friend, will date
  The opening of the year.
 
 
  Love, now an universal birth,
  From heart to heart is stealing,
  From earth to man, from man to earth,
  – It is the hour of feeling.
 
 
  One moment now may give us more
  Than fifty years of reason;
  Our minds shall drink at every pore
  The spirit of the season.
 
 
  Some silent laws our hearts may make,
  Which they shall long obey;
  We for the year to come may take
  Our temper from to-day.
 
 
  And from the blessed power that rolls
  About, below, above;
  We'll frame the measure of our souls,
  They shall be tuned to love.
 
 
  Then come, my sister I come, I pray,
  With speed put on your woodland dress,
  And bring no book; for this one day
  We'll give to idleness.
 

THE FEMALE VAGRANT

 
  By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
  (The Woman thus her artless story told)
  One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
  Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.
  Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:
  With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore
  My father's nets, or from the mountain fold
  Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar
  Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more
 
 
  My father was a good and pious man,
  An honest man by honest parents bred,
  And I believe that, soon as I began
  To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
  And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
  And afterwards, by my good father taught,
  I read, and loved the books in which I read;
  For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
  And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.
 
 
  Can I forget what charms did once adorn
  My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,
  And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?
  The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;
  The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;
  My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
  The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;
  The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,
  From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.
 
 
  The staff I yet remember which upbore
  The bending body of my active sire;
  His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore
  When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;
  When market-morning came, the neat attire
  With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;
  My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,
  When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;
  The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.
 
 
  The suns of twenty summers danced along, —
  Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:
  Then rose a stately hall our woods among,
  And cottage after cottage owned its sway.
  No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray
  Through pastures not his own, the master took;
  My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;
  He loved his old hereditary nook,
  And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.
 
 
  But when he had refused the proffered gold,
  To cruel injuries he became a prey,
  Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:
  His troubles grew upon him day by day,
  Till all his substance fell into decay.
  His little range of water was denied²;
  All but the bed where his old body lay.
  All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,
  We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.
 
 
  Can I forget that miserable hour,
  When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
  Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
  That on his marriage-day sweet music made?
  Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid,
  Close by my mother in their native bowers:
  Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, —
  I could not pray: – through tears that fell in showers,
  Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!
 
 
  There was a youth whom I had loved so long.
  That when I loved him not I cannot say.
  'Mid the green mountains many and many a song
  We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May.
  When we began to tire of childish play
  We seemed still more and more to prize each other;
  We talked of marriage and our marriage day;
  And I in truth did love him like a brother,
  For never could I hope to meet with such another.
 
 
  His father said, that to a distant town
  He must repair, to ply the artist's trade.
  What tears of bitter grief till then unknown?
  What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!
  To him we turned: – we had no other aid.
  Like one revived, upon his neck I wept,
  And her whom he had loved in joy, he said
  He well could love in grief: his faith he kept;
  And in a quiet home once more my father slept.
 
 
  Four years each day with daily bread was blest,
  By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.
  Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;
  And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,
  And knew not why. My happy father died
  When sad distress reduced the childrens' meal:
  Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide
  The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,
  And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.
 
 
  'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come;
  We had no hope, and no relief could gain.
  But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum
  Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.
  My husband's arms now only served to strain
  Me and his children hungering in his view:
  In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
  To join those miserable men he flew;
  And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.
 
 
  There foul neglect for months and months we bore,
  Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.
  Green fields before us and our native shore,
  By fever, from polluted air incurred,
  Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.
  Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,
  'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd,
  That happier days we never more must view:
  The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew.
 
 
  But from delay the summer calms were past.
  On as we drove, the equinoctial deep
  Ran mountains-high before the howling blast.
  We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep
  Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep,
  Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,
  Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,
  That we the mercy of the waves should rue.
  We readied the western world, a poor, devoted crew.
 
 
  Oh I dreadful price of being to resign
  All that is dear in being! better far
  In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,
  Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;
  Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,
  Better our dying bodies to obtrude,
  Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,
  Protract a curst existence, with the brood
  That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.
 
 
  The pains and plagues that on our heads came down;
  Disease and famine, agony and fear,
  In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,
  It would thy brain unsettle even to hear.
  All perished – all, in one remorseless year,
  Husband and children! one by one, by sword
  And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear
  Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board
  A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.
 
 
  Peaceful as some immeasurable plain
  By the first beams of dawning light impress'd;
  In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main,
  The very ocean has its hour of rest,
  That comes not to the human mourner's breast.
  Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,
  A heavenly silence did the waves invest:
  I looked and looked along the silent air,
  Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.
 
 
  Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps!
  And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke:
  The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps!
  The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!
  The shriek that from the distant battle broke!
  The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host
  Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke
  To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd,
  Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!
 
 
  Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,
  When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,
  While like a sea the storming army came,
  And Fire from hell reared his gigantic shape,
  And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape
  Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!
  But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!
  – For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,
  And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.
 
 
  Some mighty gulph of separation past,
  I seemed transported to another world: —
  A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast
  The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd,
  And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled
  The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,
  And from all hope I was forever hurled.
  For me – farthest from earthly port to roam
  Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might
      come.
 
 
  And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought
  At last my feet a resting-place had found:
  Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,)
  Roaming the illimitable waters round;
  Here watch, of every human friend disowned,
  All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood —
  To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:
  And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,
  And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.
 
 
  By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,
  Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock;
  Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,
  Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.
  I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock
  From the cross timber of an out-house hung;
  How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock!
  At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,
  Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.
 
 
  So passed another day, and so the third:
  Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,
  In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd,
  Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort:
  There, pains which nature could no more support,
  With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;
  Dizzy my brain, with interruption short
  Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,
  And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.
 
 
  Recovery came with food: but still, my brain
  Was weak, nor of the past had memory.
  I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain
  Of many things which never troubled me;
  Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,
  Of looks where common kindness had no part.
  Of service done with careless cruelty,
  Fretting the fever round the languid heart,
  And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.
 
 
  These things just served to stir the torpid sense,
  Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.
  Memory, though slow, returned with strength: and thence
  Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,
  At houses, men, and common light, amazed.
  The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired,
  Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;
  The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,
  And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.
 
 
  My heart is touched to think that men like these,
  The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:
  How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!
  And their long holiday that feared not grief,
  For all belonged to all, and each was chief.
  No plough their sinews strained; on grating road
  No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf
  In every vale for their delight was stowed:
  For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed,
 
 
  Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made
  Of potters wandering on from door to door:
  But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,
  And other joys my fancy to allure;
  The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor
  In barn uplighted, and companions boon
  Well met from far with revelry secure,
  In depth of forest glade, when jocund June
  Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.
 
 
  But ill it suited me, in journey dark
  O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;
  To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,
  Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch;
  The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,
  The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,
  And ear still busy on its nightly watch,
  Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill;
  Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.
 
 
  What could I do, unaided and unblest?
  Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:
  And kindred of dead husband are at best
  Small help, and, after marriage such as mine,
  With little kindness would to me incline.
  Ill was I then for toil or service fit:
  With tears whose course no effort could confine,
  By high-way side forgetful would I sit
  Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
 
 
  I lived upon the mercy of the fields
  And oft of cruelty the sky accused;
  On hazard, or what general bounty yields.
  Now coldly given, now utterly refused,
  The fields I for my bed have often used:
  But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth
  Is, that I have my inner self abused,
  Foregone the home delight of constant truth,
  And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
 
 
  Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,
  In tears, the sun towards that country tend
  Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:
  And now across this moor my steps I bend —
  Oh! tell me whither – for no earthly friend
  Have I. – She ceased, and weeping turned away,
  As if because her tale was at an end
  She wept; – because she had no more to say
  Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.