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Who dares report, the tidings to the lord
Of her affections? so they blindly asked
Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down:
The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
Composed and silent, without visible sign
Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
When the impatient object of his love
Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
No answer, only took the Mother's hand
And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain,
Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed,
Was a dependant on the obdurate heart
Of one who came to disunite their lives
For ever sad alternative! preferred,
By the unbending Parents of the Maid,
To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
So be it!

And one domestic for their common needs,
An aged woman. It consoled him here
To attend upon the orphan, and perform
Obsequious service to the precious child,
Which, after a short time, by some mis-
take

Or indiscretion of the Father, died. 280
The Tale I follow to its last recess

Of suffering or of peace, I know not which: Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the tale of Peter Bell, you asked "why "The Waggoner' was not added?"- To say the truth

- from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, "The Waggoner" was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819.

Rise up, and grow
The air, as in a lion's den,
Is close and hot; -

and now and then

Comes a tired and sultry breeze

With a haunting and a panting,

Like the stifling of disease;
But the dews allay the heat,
And the silence makes it sweet.
Hush, there is some one on the stir!
"Tis Benjamin the Waggoner;
Who long hath trod this toilsome way,
Companion of the night and day.
That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer,
Mixed with a faint yet grating sound
In a moment lost and found,
The Wain announces - by whose side
Along the banks of Rydal Mere
He paces on, a trusty Guide,
Listen! you can scarcely hear!
Hither he his course is bending;
Now he leaves the lower ground,
And up the craggy hill ascending
Many a stop and stay he makes,
Many a breathing-fit he takes; -
Steep the way and wearisome,
Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

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30

The Horses have worked with right good-will,

And so have gained the top of the hill;
He was patient, they were strong,
And now they smoothly glide along,
Recovering breath, and pleased to win
The praises of mild Benjamin.

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Heaven shield him from mishap and snare!
But why so early with this prayer?
Is it for threatenings in the sky?
Or for some other danger nigh?

No; none is near him yet, though he
Be one of much infirmity;

For at the bottom of the brow,

Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH Offered a greeting of good ale⚫

To all who entered Grasmere Vale;

And called on him who must depart

To leave it with a jovial heart;

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There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH Once hung, a Poet harbours now,

A simple water-drinking Bard;

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Why need our Hero then (though frail

His best resolves) be on his guard?

He marches by, secure and bold;
Yet while he thinks on times of old,
It seems that all looks wondrous cold;
He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
And, for the honest folk within,
It is a doubt with Benjamin
Whether they be alive or dead!
Here is no danger,
none at all!
Beyond his wish he walks secure;
But pass a mile - and then for trial,
Then for the pride of self-denial;
If he resist that tempting door,

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Which with such friendly voice will call;
If he resist those casement panes,
And that bright gleam which thence will
fall

Upon his Leaders' bells and manes,
Inviting him with cheerful lure:

For still, though all be dark elsewhere, so
Some shining notice will be there,

Of open house and ready fare.

The place to Benjamin right well
Is known, and by as strong a spell
As used to be that sign of love
And hope

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the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous SWAN ? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, "T was coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing this rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! Well! that is past-and in despite Of open door and shining light. And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; And with his team is gentle here As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; His whip they do not dread his voice They only hear it to rejoice.

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Yes, let my master fume and fret,
Here am I - with my horses yet!
My jolly team, he finds that ye
Will work for nobody but me !

Full proof of this the Country gained;

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It knows how ye were vexed and strained,
And forced unworthy stripes to bear,
When trusted to another's care.
Here was it on this rugged slope,
Which now ye climb with heart and hope,
I saw you, between rage and fear,
Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear,
And ever more and more confused,
As ye were more and more abused:
As chance would have it, passing by
I saw you in that jeopardy:

A word from me was like a charm;
Ye pulled together with one mind;
And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
Moved like a vessel in the wind!

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Yes, without me, up hills so high
"T is vain to strive for mastery.
Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
The road we travel, steep, and rough;
Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise,
And all their fellow banks and braes,
Full often make you stretch and strain,
And halt for breath and halt again,
Yet to their sturdiness 't is owing
That side by side we still are going!
While Benjamin in earnest mood
His meditations thus pursued,

A storm, which had been smothered long,
Was growing inwardly more strong;
And, in its struggles to get free,
Was busily employed as he.
The thunder had begun to growl
He heard not, too intent of soul;
The air was now without a breath

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He marked not that 't was still as death.
But soon large rain-drops on his head
Fell with the weight of drops of lead;
He starts and takes, at the admonition,
A sage survey of his condition.
The road is black before his eyes,
Glimmering faintly where it lies;
Black is the sky- and every hill,
Up to the sky, is blacker still
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,
Hung round and overhung with gloom;
Save that above a single height
Is to be seen a lurid light,

Above Helm-crag a streak half dead,
A burning of portentous red;

And near that lurid light, full well

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