Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower! ('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, Though by a slender thread,)
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air The gentlest breath of resignation drew; While Venus in a passion of despair Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; But pangs more lasting far that Lover knew Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast Flower! could
With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.
COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This Flower, that first appeared as summer's
Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,
One after one submitting to their doom, When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lone- some bed?
The old mythologists, more impress'd than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.
RURAL ILLUSIONS.
SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright
Than those of fabulous stock?
A second darted by ;-and lo! Another of the flock,
Through sunshine flitting from the bough To nestle in the rock.
Transient deception! a gay freak Of April's mimicries!
Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Among the budding trees,
Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the
To frolic on the breeze.
Maternal Flora! show thy face,
And let thy hand be seen,
Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, That, as they touch the green, Take root (so seems it) and look up In honour of their Queen. Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, That not in vain aspired
To be confounded with live growths, Most dainty, most admired, Were only blossoms dropped from twigs Of their own offspring tired.
Not such the World's illusive shows; Her wingless flutterings,
Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave The floweret as it springs,
For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things:
But gentle Nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles,
And transient feignings with plain truth So well she reconciles,
That those fond Idlers most are pleased Whom oftenest she beguiles.
THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.
THAT way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one-two-and three- From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveyed Sylph or Faery hither tending,— To this lower world descending, Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now-now one- Now they stop and there are none: What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap half way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then Has it in her power again : Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art, Far beyond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand standers-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! "Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale so blithe a place, Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside.
Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung-head pointing towards the ground- Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin! Prettiest Tumbler ever seen! Light of heart and light of limb; What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decoy Into open sign of joy: Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,- Spreads with such a living grace. O'er my little Laura's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsomeness. -Pleased by any random toy; By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss; Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought, Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 1804.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTI OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16. -HAST thou then survived- Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn-one life of that bright star, The second glory of the Heavens?-Thou hast ; Already hast survived that great decay, That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory? neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to
Frail, feeble, Monthling!-by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, And rudely canopied by leafy boughs, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains, -the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned, Would, with imperious admonition, then Have scored thine age, and punctually timed Thine infant history, on the minds of those Who might have wandered with thee.- Mother's love,
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed, Do for thee what the finger of the heavens Doth all too often harshly execute For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds Where fancy hath small liberty to grace The affections, to exalt them or refine; And the maternal sympathy itself, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier, is thy lot and ours! Even now-to solemnise thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen, Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, Within the region of a father's thoughts, Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky. And first-thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,
Moving untouched in silver purity,
And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn With brightness! leaving her to post along, And range about, disquieted in change, And still impatient of the shape she wears. Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe, That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception, grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope, and a renovation without end. -That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs, Which, when the appointed season hath arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own. 1804.
THE WAGGONER.
"In Cairo's crowded streets
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, And Mecca saddens at the long delay."
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 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 gratifica tion 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,
But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between, Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The mountains against heaven's grave weight
Rise up, and grow to wondrous height 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, Mix'd 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!
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.
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;
There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH Once hung, a Poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard; 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,
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, Some shining notice will be there Of 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-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, 'Twas 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 gently here As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; His whip they do not dread-his voice They only hear it to rejoice.
To stand or go is at their pleasure; Their efforts and their time they measure By generous pride within the breast; And, while they strain, and while they rest, He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.
Now am I fairly safe to-night-- And with proud cause my heart is light: I trespassed lately worse than ever- But Heaven has blest a good endeavour; And, to my soul's content, I find The evil One is left behind. 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: 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! -Yes, without me, up hills so high 'Tis 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 'tis 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- He marked not that 'twas 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 The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling aloft his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in common With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN, Cowering beside her rifted cell, As if intent on magic spell ;-
Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together!
The ASTROLOGER was not unseen
By solitary Benjamin ;
But total darkness came anon, And he and every thing was gone : And suddenly a ruffling breeze,
(That would have rocked the sounding trees Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Swept through the Hollow long and bare: The rain rushed down-the road was battered, As with the force of billows shattered; The horses are dismayed, nor know Whether they should stand or go; And Benjamin is groping near them, Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. He is astounded,-wonder not,- With such a charge in such a spot; Astounded in the mountain gap With thunder-peals, clap after clap, Close-treading on the silent flashes- And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes Among the rocks; with weight of rain, And sullen motions long and slow, That to a dreary distance go- Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,
A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.
Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,
And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue
Their way, without mishap or fault;
And now have reached that pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; He who had once supreme command, Last king of rocky Cumberland; His bones, and those of all his Power, Slain here in a disastrous hour!
When, passing through this narrow strait, Stony, and dark, and desolate, Benjamin can faintly hear
A voice that comes from some one near, A female voice :-"Whoe'er you be, Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!" And, less in pity than in wonder, Amid the darkness and the thunder,
* A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler near Arroquhar in Scotland.
The Waggoner, with prompt command, Summons his horses to a stand.
While, with increasing agitation, The Woman urged her supplication, In rueful words, with sobs between- The voice of tears that fell unseen; There came a flash-a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, And Benjamin, without a question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!" Another voice, in tone as hoarse
As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I've had a glimpse of you-avast! Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once-for good and evil!"
"It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin; She and her Babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress!" Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can : The Sailor-Sailor now no more, But such he had been heretofore- To courteous Benjamin replied,
"Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide My Ass and fifty things beside,— Go, and I'll follow speedily!"
The Waggon moves-and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly Turns to a little tent hard by: For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warm air Tempted them to settle there.- Green is the grass for beast to graze, Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!
The Sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvas overhead; And, after farewell to the place, A parting word-though not of grace, Pursues, with Ass and all his store, The way the Waggon went before.
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