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Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime,
Apart from happy Ghosts-that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.

Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew

From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and blight!

HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows 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 breast, 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 prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree;

It comes to cool my Babe and me.

For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural History, lib. 16, cap. 44; and for the features in the character of Protesilaus (page 89) see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides.Virgil places the Shade of Laodamia in a mournful region, among unhappy Lovers,

It comes.

His Laodamia

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RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors:
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;-on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

upon

the moor;

I was a Traveller then
I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
As high as we have mounted in delight

In our dejection do we sink as low,

To me that morning did it happen so ;'

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;

Dim sadness-and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor
could name.

I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me-
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,'
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy

Following his plough, along the mountain-side:

By our own spirits are we deified:

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness:

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,

By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;
Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep-in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.
Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face,
Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood :
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood;
That heareth not the loud winds when they call;
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond
Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger's privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
«This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.»

A gentle answer did the Old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
«What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.»>
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest ;
Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,

Religious men, who give to God and Man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather Leeches, being old and poor :
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance;
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The Old Man still stood talking by my side;

But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole Body of the Man did seem

But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven

I saw a Man before me unawares:

The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Or like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills:
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
-Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

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Pass by her door-'t is 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.»

« But wherefore to the mountain-top
Can this unhappy woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?»

<< "T is known, that twenty years are passed
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,

While friends and kindred all approved
Of him whom tenderly she loved.

«And they had fixed 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 woeful day
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent;

A Fire was kindled in her breast,
Which might not burn itself to rest.

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«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-eve we talked of this,
And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen
Held that the unborn 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.

« More know I not, I wish I did,
And it should all be told to you;
For what became of this poor Child
No Mortal ever knew;
Nay-if a Child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell;
And if it was born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

«And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

"T was 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.

«But that she goes to this old Thorn,
The Thorn which I 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 climb'd the mountain's height:
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.

«'T was 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.

I look'd 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.

« I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face-it was enough for me;
I turn'd about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh 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!'

<«<But what's the Thorn? and what the Pond?

And what the hill of moss to her?

And what the creeping breeze that comes
The little Pond to stir?»

<< I cannot tell; but some will say
She hang'd her Baby on the tree;
Some say she drown'd 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.

<<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, 't is plain
The baby looks at you again.

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.
It might not be-the Hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And for full fifty yards around,
the ground!
upon

The grass-it shook
Yet all do still aver

The little Babe is buried there,
Beneath that Hill of moss so fair,

« 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,

'O misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!'»>

HART-LEAP WELL.

The

poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy:
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat:
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads

from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remark-Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, «< Till now able Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuSuch sight was never seen by living eyes: ments do now exist as I have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turned aside towards a Vassal's door,
And Bring another horse!» he cried aloud.
Another Horse!»-That shout the Vassal heard,
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes;
The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair;
But though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
But Horse and Man are vanish'd one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The Dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
-This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

<< I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small Arbour, made for rural joy;
T will be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for Damsels that are coy.

« A cunning Artist will I have to frame
A basin for that Fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.

« And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

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And, in the summer-time when days are long,

I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.

« Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure;-
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!»

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.
-Soon did the Knight perform what he had said,
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steer'd,
A Cup of stone received the living Well;
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd,
And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.

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