Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800 Volume I Part 7

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 f.a.ggot 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 a.s.s, 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 fort.i.tude: 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.

_THE DUNGEON._

And this place our forefathers made for man!

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 sheets, 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.

_SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, With an incident in which he was concerned._

In the sweet s.h.i.+re of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, An old man dwells, a little man, I've heard he once was tall.

Of years he has upon his back, No doubt, a burthen weighty; He says he is three score and ten, But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he, That's fair behind, and fair before; Yet, meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor.

Full five and twenty years he lived A running huntsman merry; And, though he has but one eye left, His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound, And no man was so full of glee; To say the least, four counties round.

Had heard of Simon Lee; His master's dead, and no one now Dwells in the hall of Ivor; Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; He is the sole survivor.

His hunting feats have him bereft Of his right eye, as you may see: And then, what limbs those feats have left To poor old Simon Lee!

He has no son, he has no child, His wife, an aged woman, Lives with him, near the waterfall, Upon the village common.

And he is lean and he is sick, His dwindled body's half awry, His ancles they are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry.

When he was young he little knew 'Of husbandry or tillage; And now he's forced to work, though weak, --The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race was done, He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world At which his heart rejoices; For when the chiming bounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!

Old Ruth works out of doors with him.

And does what Simon cannot do; For she, not over stout of limb, Is stouter of the two.

And though you with your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, Not twenty paces from the door, A sc.r.a.p of land they have, but they Are poorest of the poor.

This sc.r.a.p of land he from the heath Enclosed when he was stronger; But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will-tell, For still, the more he works, the more His poor old ancles swell.

My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And I'm afraid that you expect Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader! you would find A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short, I hope you'll kindly take it; It is no tale; but should you think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see This old man doing all he could About the root of an old tree, A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock totter'd in his hand; So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever.

"You've overtasked, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool" to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid.

I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done.

--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning.

Alas! the grat.i.tude of men Has oftner left me mourning.

_LINES Written in early Spring_.

I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev'd my heart to think What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: Their thoughts I cannot measure, But the least motion which they made, It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.