Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,
Inly disturbed, to think that others felt
What he must never feel and so, lost Man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this
deep vale

He died, this seat is only monument.

If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms

of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned, and know that pride, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought

ADVERTISEMENT,

PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF

THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842.

Not less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of "The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here: but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the

scene

rather as a matter of literary biography than

for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced.

During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the Commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains.

The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated.

In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say, that of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England.

And so he sent a feeble shout-in vain;
No voice made answer, he could only hear
Or whistling thro' thin grass along the un-
Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain,
furrowed plain.

V.

Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might

turn

And rest; but now along heaven's darken

ing cope

The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne.

spreading thorn

XXI.

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned,

And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned,

By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned,

Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound;

Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found,

In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.

XXII.

XXV.

The staff I well remember which upbore
The bending body of my active sire;
His seat beneath the honied sycamore
Where the bees hummed, and chair by
winter fire;

When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself J decked:

Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire

The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked.

XXVI.

wind

wrong,

We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day
My father's substance fell into decay.
When Fortune might put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;
He from his old hereditary nook
Must part; the summons came ;—our final
leave we took.

XXVII.

It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire sur veyed,

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

Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

XXVIII.

There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,

That when I loved him not I cannot say : 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless 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;