Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth (Illustrated) E-Book

William Wordsworth

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 7287

Beschreibung

The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete works of William Wordsworth, one of the most celebrated poets of all time, enhanced with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (8MB Version 1)

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* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Wordsworth's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry collections and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* All versions of the famous 'Lyrical Ballads', including all of Coleridge's contributions
* Excellent formatting of over 950 poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* The complete prose works, will fully working contents tables
* Includes Dorothy Wordsworth's famous travel writing book - spend hours exploring Wordsworth's adventures with his sister and Coleridge
* Features F. W. H. Myers's famous and detailed biography - discover Wordsworth's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

Leseprobe

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

(1770-1850)

Contents

The Poetry Collections and Major Works

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH

LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS

LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH OTHER POEMS

POEMS, IN TWO VOLUMES

THE EXCURSION

LAODAMIA

THE PRELUDE

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Prose Works

LIST OF PROSE WORKS

Dorothy Wordsworth’s Works

RECOLLECTIONS OF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND A.D. 1803

THE ALFOXDEN JOURNAL, 1798

THE GRASMERE JOURNAL, 1800-1803

The Biography

WORDSWORTH by F. W. H. Myers

©Delphi Classics 2013

Version 3

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

By Delphi Classics, 2013

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections and Major Works

Wordsworth House, Cockermouth — the poet’s birthplace

View of the garden at Wordsworth House

The earliest known portrait of Wordsworth, aged 28, c.1798

POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH

William Wordsworth is regarded as one of England’s most celebrated poets, who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature, following the 1798 publication of Lyrical Ballads.

The poems collected in the following section record some of Wordsworth’s earliest memories, which would be used again in the poet’s magnum opus The Prelude.  Though unembellished and simplistic at times, these early works hint at the themes and genius that would predominate Wordsworth’s greatest works.

When Wordsworth was sent to Cambridge, he was already determined to be a poet, and after graduating he traveled around Europe, returning home when he ran out of funds. He published two poems that appear in this section, Descriptive Sketches and An Evening Walk, which were not well received. However, a wealthy friend bequeathed the young poet the money needed to allow him to pursue a career in writing.

At this time Wordsworth met fellow poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge and they became firm friends. Together, the two poets would collaborate on one of the most famous poetry collections ever to be published…

Hawkshead Grammar School, which was attended by Wordsworth in 1778

CONTENTS

EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH

AN EVENING WALK

LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS

DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS

GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE

THE BORDERERS

EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL

Dear native regions, I foretell,From what I feel at this farewell,That, wheresoe’er my steps may tend,And whensoe’er my course shall end,

If in that hour a single tieSurvive of local sympathy,My soul will cast the backward view,The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to restFar in the regions of the west,Though to the vale no parting beamBe given, not one memorial gleam,A lingering light he fondly throwsOn the dear hills where first he rose.

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,Is cropping audibly his later meal:Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to stealO’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,Home-felt, and home-created, comes to healThat grief for which the senses still supplyFresh food; for only then, when memoryIs hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrainThose busy cares that would allay my pain;Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feelThe officious touch that makes me droop again.

AN EVENING WALK

The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance:

Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale,Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, — The dog, loud barking, ‘mid the glittering rocks,Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.

I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another image:

And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwinesIts darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines.

This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as confined to the gentleman’s park, but in a state of nature. There were two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single yard upon each other’s separate domain. They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of ‘Dion’. While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a little fleet of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects. — I. F.

LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING

How richly glows the water’s breastBefore us, tinged with evening hues,While, facing thus the crimson west,The boat her silent course pursues!And see how dark the backward stream!A little moment past so smiling!And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,Some other loiterers beguiling.

Such views the youthful Bard allure;But, heedless of the following gloom,He deems their colours shall endureTill peace go with him to the tomb. — And let him nurse his fond deceit,And what if he must die in sorrow!Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,O Thames! that other bards may seeAs lovely visions by thy sideAs now, fair river! come to me.O glide, fair stream! for ever so,Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,Till all our minds for ever flowAs thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! — Yet be as now thou art,That in thy waters may be seenThe image of a poet’s heart,How bright, how solemn, how serene!Such as did once the Poet bless,Who murmuring here a later ditty,Could find no refuge from distressBut in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,For him suspend the dashing oar;And pray that never child of songMay know that Poet’s sorrows more.How calm! how still! the only sound,The dripping of the oar suspended! — The evening darkness gathers roundBy virtue’s holiest Powers attended.

DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS

To the Rev. Robert Jones, Fellow of St. John’s College, Cambridge

Dear Sir, — However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggested.

In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!

I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together; consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.

With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem

I am, dear Sir, Most sincerely yours, W. Wordsworth.

London, 1793.

Were there, below, a spot of holy groundWhere from distress a refuge might be found,And solitude prepare the soul for heaven;Sure, nature’s God that spot to man had givenWhere falls the purple morning far and wideIn flakes of light upon the mountain-side;Where with loud voice the power of water shakesThe leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes.

Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam,Who at the call of summer quits his home,And plods through some wide realm o’er vale and height,Though seeking only holiday delight;At least, not owning to himself an aimTo which the sage would give a prouder name.No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy,Though every passing zephyr whispers joy;Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease,Feeds the clear current of his sympathies.For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn;And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn!Dear is the forest frowning o’er his head,And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread:Moves there a cloud o’er mid-day’s flaming eye?Upward he looks — ”and calls it luxury:”Kind Nature’s charities his steps attend;In every babbling brook he finds a friend;While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowedBy wisdom, moralise his pensive road.Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower,To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;He views the sun uplift his golden fire,Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon’s lyre;Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray,To light him shaken by his rugged way.Back from his sight no bashful children steal;He sits a brother at the cottage-meal;His humble looks no shy restraint impart;Around him plays at will the virgin heart.While unsuspended wheels the village dance,The maidens eye him with enquiring glance,Much wondering by what fit of crazing care,Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there.

A hope, that prudence could not then approve,That clung to Nature with a truant’s love,O’er Gallia’s wastes of corn my footsteps led;Her files of road-elms, high above my headIn long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze;Or where her pathways straggle as they pleaseBy lonely farms and secret villages.But lo! the Alps ascending white in air,Toy with the sun and glitter from afar.

And now, emerging from the forest’s gloom,I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom.Whither is fled that Power whose frown severeAwed sober Reason till she crouched in fear?That Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound,Chains that were loosened only by the soundOf holy rites chanted in measured round?

— The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms,The cloister startles at the gleam of arms.The thundering tube the aged angler hears,Bent o’er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears.Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads,Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o’erspreads;Strong terror checks the female peasant’s sighs, And start the astonished shades at female eyes.From Bruno’s forest screams the affrighted jay,And slow the insulted eagle wheels away.A viewless flight of laughing Demons mockThe Cross, by angels planted on the aërial rock. The “parting Genius” sighs with hollow breathAlong the mystic streams of Life and Death.Swelling the outcry dull, that long resoundsPortentous through her old woods’ trackless bounds,Vallombre, ‘mid her falling fanes deplores For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers.

More pleased, my foot the hidden margin rovesOf Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves.No meadows thrown between, the giddy steepsTower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps.  — To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain,From ringing team apart and grating wain — To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water’s bound,Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound,Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling, And o’er the whitened wave their shadows fling — The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines;And Silence loves its purple roof of vines.The loitering traveller hence, at evening, seesFrom rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees; Or marks, ‘mid opening cliffs, fair dark-eyed maidsTend the small harvest of their garden glades;Or stops the solemn mountain-shades to viewStretch o’er the pictured mirror broad and blue,And track the yellow lights from steep to steep, As up the opposing hills they slowly creep.Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayedIn golden light; half hides itself in shade:While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire,Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire: There, all unshaded, blazing forests throwRich golden verdure on the lake below.Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,And steals into the shade the lazy oar;Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs, And amorous music on the water dies.

How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greetsThy open beauties, or thy lone retreats;Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scalesThy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore,Each with its household boat beside the door;Thy torrents shooting from the clear-blue sky;Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows’ nests, on high;That glimmer hoar in eve’s last light descriedDim from the twilight water’s shaggy side,Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woodsSteal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods; — Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or grey,‘Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning’s raySlow-travelling down the western hills, to’ enfoldIts green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold;Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bellCalls forth the woodman from his desert cell,And quickens the blithe sound of oars that passAlong the steaming lake, to early mass.But now farewell to each and all — adieuTo every charm, and last and chief to you,Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shadeRest near your little plots of wheaten glade;To all that binds the soul in powerless trance,Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance;Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illumeThe sylvan cabin’s lute-enlivened gloom. — Alas! the very murmur of the streamsBreathes o’er the failing soul voluptuous dreams,While Slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwellOn joys that might disgrace the captive’s cell,Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como’s marge,And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge.

Yet are thy softer arts with power induedTo soothe and cheer the poor man’s solitude.By silent cottage-doors, the peasant’s homeLeft vacant for the day, I loved to roam.But once I pierced the mazes of a woodIn which a cabin undeserted stood;There an old man an olden measure scannedOn a rude viol touched with withered hand.As lambs or fawns in April clustering lieUnder a hoary oak’s thin canopy,Stretched at his feet, with stedfast upward eye,His children’s children listened to the sound; — A Hermit with his family around!

But let us hence; for fair Locarno smilesEmbowered in walnut slopes and citron isles:Or seek at eve the banks of Tusa’s stream,Where, ‘mid dim towers and woods, her waters gleam.From the bright wave, in solemn gloom, retireThe dull-red steeps, and, darkening still, aspireTo where afar rich orange lustres glowRound undistinguished clouds, and rocks, and snow:Or, led where Via Mala’s chasms confineThe indignant waters of the infant Rhine,Hang o’er the abyss, whose else impervious gloomHis burning eyes with fearful light illume.

The mind condemned, without reprieve, to goO’er life’s long deserts with its charge of woe,With sad congratulation joins the trainWhere beasts and men together o’er the plainMove on — a mighty caravan of pain:Hope, strength, and courage, social suffering brings,Freshening the wilderness with shades and springs. — There be whose lot far otherwise is cast:Sole human tenant of the piny waste,By choice or doom a gipsy wanders here,A nursling babe her only comforter;Lo, where she sits beneath yon shaggy rock,A cowering shape half hid in curling smoke!

When lightning among clouds and mountain-snowsPredominates, and darkness comes and goes,And the fierce torrent, at the flashes broadStarts, like a horse, beside the glaring road — She seeks a covert from the battering showerIn the roofed bridge; the bridge, in that dread hour,Itself all trembling at the torrent’s power.

Nor is she more at ease on some still night,When not a star supplies the comfort of its light;Only the waning moon hangs dull and redAbove a melancholy mountain’s head,Then sets. In total gloom the Vagrant sighs,Stoops her sick head, and shuts her weary eyes;Or on her fingers counts the distant clock,Or, to the drowsy crow of midnight cock,Listens, or quakes while from the forest’s gulfHowls near and nearer yet the famished wolf.

From the green vale of Urseren smooth and wideDescend we now, the maddened Reuss our guide;By rocks that, shutting out the blessed day,Cling tremblingly to rocks as loose as they;By cells upon whose image, while he prays,The kneeling peasant scarcely dares to gaze;By many a votive death-cross planted near,And watered duly with the pious tear,That faded silent from the upward eyeUnmoved with each rude form of peril nigh;Fixed on the anchor left by Him who savesAlike in whelming snows, and roaring waves.

But soon a peopled region on the sightOpens — a little world of calm delight;Where mists, suspended on the expiring gale,Spread roof like o’er the deep secluded vale,And beams of evening slipping in between,Gently illuminate a sober scene: — Here, on the brown wood-cottages they sleep,There, over rock or sloping pasture creep.On as we journey, in clear view displayed,The still vale lengthens underneath its shadeOf low-hung vapour: on the freshened meadThe green light sparkles; — the dim bowers recede.While pastoral pipes and streams the landscape lull,And bells of passing mules that tinkle dull, In solemn shapes before the admiring eyeDilated hang the misty pines on high,Huge convent domes with pinnacles and towers,And antique castles seen through gleamy showers.

From such romantic dreams, my soul, awake!To sterner pleasure, where, by Uri’s lakeIn Nature’s pristine majesty outspread,Winds neither road nor path for foot to tread:The rocks rise naked as a wall, or stretch,Far o’er the water, hung with groves of beech;Aerial pines from loftier steeps ascend,Nor stop but where creation seems to end.Yet here and there, if ‘mid the savage sceneAppears a scanty plot of smiling green,Up from the lake a zigzag path will creepTo reach a small wood-hut hung boldly on the steep. — Before those thresholds (never can they knowThe face of traveller passing to and fro,)No peasant leans upon his pole, to tellFor whom at morning tolled the funeral bell;Their watch-dog ne’er his angry bark foregoes,Touched by the beggar’s moan of human woes;The shady porch ne’er offered a cool seatTo pilgrims overcome by summer’s heat.Yet thither the world’s business finds its wayAt times, and tales unsought beguile the day,And there are those fond thoughts which Solitude,However stern, is powerless to exclude.There doth the maiden watch her lover’s sailApproaching, and upbraid the tardy gale;At midnight listens till his parting oar,And its last echo, can be heard no more.

And what if ospreys, cormorants, herons cry,Amid tempestuous vapours driving by,Or hovering over wastes too bleak to rearThat common growth of earth, the foodful ear;Where the green apple shrivels on the spray,And pines the unripened pear in summer’s kindliest ray;Contentment shares the desolate domainWith Independence, child of high Disdain.Exulting ‘mid the winter of the skies,Shy as the jealous chamois, Freedom flies,And grasps by fits her sword, and often eyes;And sometimes, as from rock to rock she boundsThe Patriot nymph starts at imagined sounds,And, wildly pausing, oft she hangs aghast,Whether some old Swiss air hath checked her hasteOr thrill of Spartan fife is caught between the blast.

Swoln with incessant rains from hour to hour,All day the floods a deepening murmur pour:The sky is veiled, and every cheerful sight:Dark is the region as with coming night;But what a sudden burst of overpowering light!Triumphant on the bosom of the storm,Glances the wheeling eagle’s glorious form!Eastward, in long perspective glittering, shineThe wood-crowned cliffs that o’er the lake recline;Those lofty cliffs a hundred streams unfold,At once to pillars turned that flame with gold:Behind his sail the peasant shrinks, to shunThe west, that burns like one dilated sun,A crucible of mighty compass, feltBy mountains, glowing till they seem to melt.

But, lo! the boatman, overawed, beforeThe pictured fane of Tell suspends his oar;Confused the Marathonian tale appears,While his eyes sparkle with heroic tears.And who, that walks where men of ancient daysHave wrought with godlike arm the deeds of praise,Feels not the spirit of the place control,Or rouse and agitate his labouring soul?Say, who, by thinking on Canadian hills,Or wild Aosta lulled by Alpine rills,On Zutphen’s plain; or on that highland dell,Through which rough Garry cleaves his way, can tellWhat high resolves exalt the tenderest thoughtOf him whom passion rivets to the spot,Where breathed the gale that caught Wolfe’s happiest sigh,And the last sunbeam fell on Bayard’s eye;Where bleeding Sidney from the cup retired,And glad Dundee in “faint huzzas” expired?

But now with other mind I stand aloneUpon the summit of this naked cone,And watch the fearless chamois-hunter chaseHis prey, through tracts abrupt of desolate space,Through vacant worlds where Nature never gaveA brook to murmur or a bough to wave,Which unsubstantial Phantoms sacred keep;Thro’ worlds where Life, and Voice, and Motion sleep;Where silent Hours their death-like sway extend,Save when the avalanche breaks loose, to rendIts way with uproar, till the ruin, drownedIn some dense wood or gulf of snow profound,Mocks the dull ear of Time with deaf abortive sound. — ’Tis his, while wandering on from height to height,To see a planet’s pomp and steady lightIn the least star of scarce-appearing night;While the pale moon moves near him, on the boundOf ether, shining with diminished round,And far and wide the icy summits blaze,Rejoicing in the glory of her rays:To him the day-star glitters small and bright,Shorn of its beams, insufferably white,And he can look beyond the sun, and viewThose fast-receding depths of sable blueFlying till vision can no more pursue! — At once bewildering mists around him close,And cold and hunger are his least of woes;The Demon of the snow, with angry roarDescending, shuts for aye his prison door.Soon with despair’s whole weight his spirits sink;Bread has he none, the snow must be his drink;And, ere his eyes can close upon the day,The eagle of the Alps o’ershades her prey.

Now couch thyself where, heard with fear afar,Thunders through echoing pines the headlong Aar;Or rather stay to taste the mild delightsOf pensive Underwalden’s pastoral heights. — Is there who ‘mid these awful wilds has seenThe native Genii walk the mountain green?Or heard, while other worlds their charms reveal,Soft music o’er the aërial summit steal?While o’er the desert, answering every close,Rich steam of sweetest perfume comes and goes. — And sure there is a secret Power that reignsHere, where no trace of man the spot profanes,Nought but the chalets, flat and bare, on highSuspended ‘mid the quiet of the sky;Or distant herds that pasturing upward creep,And, not untended, climb the dangerous steep.How still! no irreligious sound or sightRouses the soul from her severe delight.An idle voice the sabbath region fillsOf Deep that calls to Deep across the hills,And with that voice accords the soothing soundOf drowsy bells, for ever tinkling round;Faint wail of eagle melting into blueBeneath the cliffs, and pine-woods’ steady sugh;The solitary heifer’s deepened low;Or rumbling, heard remote, of falling snow.All motions, sounds, and voices, far and nigh,Blend in a music of tranquillity;Save when, a stranger seen below the boyShouts from the echoing hills with savage joy.

When, from the sunny breast of open seas,And bays with myrtle fringed, the southern breezeComes on to gladden April with the sightOf green isles widening on each snow-clad height;When shouts and lowing herds the valley fill,And louder torrents stun the noon-tide hill,The pastoral Swiss begin the cliffs to scale,Leaving to silence the deserted vale;And like the Patriarchs in their simple ageMove, as the verdure leads, from stage to stage; High and more high in summer’s heat they go,And hear the rattling thunder far below;Or steal beneath the mountains, half-deterred,Where huge rocks tremble to the bellowing herd.

One I behold who, ‘cross the foaming flood,Leaps with a bound of graceful hardihood;Another high on that green ledge; — he gainedThe tempting spot with every sinew strained;And downward thence a knot of grass he throws,Food for his beasts in time of winter snows. — Far different life from what Tradition hoarTransmits of happier lot in times of yore!Then Summer lingered long; and honey flowedFrom out the rocks, the wild bees’ safe abode:Continual waters welling cheered the waste, And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste:Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled,Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled:Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare,To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare.Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land,And forced the full-swoln udder to demand,Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand.Thus does the father to his children tellOf banished bliss, by fancy loved too well.Alas! that human guilt provoked the rodOf angry Nature to avenge her God.Still, Nature, ever just, to him impartsJoys only given to uncorrupted hearts.

‘Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows;More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose. Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills,A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,A solemn sea! whose billows wide aroundStand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear,That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear.A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue,Gapes in the centre of the sea — and throughThat dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound Innumerable streams with roar profound.Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds,And merry flageolet; the low of herds,The bark of dogs, the heifer’s tinkling bell,Talk, laughter, and perchance a church-tower knell:Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised:Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor lessAlive to independent happiness,Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at even-tideUpon the fragrant mountain’s purple side:For as the pleasures of his simple dayBeyond his native valley seldom stray,Nought round its darling precincts can he findBut brings some past enjoyment to his mind;While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure’s urn,Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.

Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild,Was blest as free — for he was Nature’s child.He, all superior but his God disdained,Walked none restraining, and by none restrained:Confessed no law but what his reason taught,Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought.As man in his primeval dower arrayedThe image of his glorious Sire displayed,Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, hereThe traces of primeval Man appear;The simple dignity no forms debase;The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace:The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord,His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword; — Well taught by that to feel his rights, preparedWith this “the blessings he enjoys to guard.”

And, as his native hills encircle groundFor many a marvellous victory renowned,The work of Freedom daring to oppose,With few in arms, innumerable foes,When to those famous fields his steps are led,An unknown power connects him with the dead:For images of other worlds are there;Awful the light, and holy is the air.Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul,Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll;His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain,Beyond the senses and their little reign.

And oft, when that dread vision hath past by,He holds with God himself communion high,There where the peal of swelling torrents fillsThe sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills;Or, when upon the mountain’s silent browReclined, he sees, above him and below,Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow;While needle peaks of granite shooting bareTremble in ever-varying tints of air.And when a gathering weight of shadows brownFalls on the valleys as the sun goes down;And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms,Uplift in quiet their illumined forms,In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread,Tinged like an angel’s smile all rosy red — Awe in his breast with holiest love unites,And the near heavens impart their own delights.

When downward to his winter hut he goes,Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows;That hut which on the hills so oft employsHis thoughts, the central point of all his joys.And as a swallow, at the hour of rest,Peeps often ere she darts into her nest,So to the homestead, where the grandsire tendsA little prattling child, he oft descends,To glance a look upon the well-matched pair;Till storm and driving ice blockade him there.There, safely guarded by the woods behind,He hears the chiding of the baffled wind,Hears Winter calling all his terrors round,And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound.

Through Nature’s vale his homely pleasures glide,Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride;The bound of all his vanity, to deck,With one bright bell, a favourite heifer’s neck;Well pleased upon some simple annual feast,Remembered half the year and hoped the rest,If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard,Of thrice ten summers dignify the board. — Alas! in every clime a flying rayIs all we have to cheer our wintry way;

And here the unwilling mind may more than traceThe general sorrows of the human race:The churlish gales of penury, that blowCold as the north-wind o’er a waste of snow,To them the gentle groups of bliss denyThat on the noon-day bank of leisure lie.Yet more; — compelled by Powers which only deignThat solitary man disturb their reign,Powers that support an unremitting strifeWith all the tender charities of life,Full oft the father, when his sons have grownTo manhood, seems their title to disown;And from his nest amid the storms of heavenDrives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven;With stern composure watches to the plain — And never, eagle-like, beholds again!

When long familiar joys are all resigned,Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind?Lo! where through flat Batavia’s willowy groves,Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves;O’er the curled waters Alpine measures swell,And search the affections to their inmost cell;Sweet poison spreads along the listener’s veins,Turning past pleasures into mortal pains;Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave,Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.

Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume!Fresh gales and dews of life’s delicious morn,And thou, lost fragrance of the heart, return!Alas! the little joy to man allowed,Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud;Or like the beauty in a flower installed,Whose season was, and cannot be recalled.Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care,And taught that pain is pleasure’s natural heir,We still confide in more than we can know;Death would be else the favourite friend of woe.

‘Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine,Between interminable tracts of pine,Within a temple stands an awful shrine,By an uncertain light revealed, that fallsOn the mute Image and the troubled walls.Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdainThat views, undimmed, Ensiedlen’s wretched fane.While ghastly faces through the gloom appear,Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear;While prayer contends with silenced agony,Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.If the sad grave of human ignorance bearOne flower of hope — oh, pass and leave it there!

The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire,Flings o’er the wilderness a stream of fire:Now meet we other pilgrims ere the dayClose on the remnant of their weary way;While they are drawing toward the sacred floorWhere, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more.How gaily murmur and how sweetly tasteThe fountains reared for them amid the waste! Their thirst they slake: — they wash their toil-worn feet,And some with tears of joy each other greet.Yes, I must see you when ye first beholdThose holy turrets tipped with evening gold,In that glad moment will for you a sighBe heaved, of charitable sympathy;In that glad moment when your hands are prest In mute devotion on the thankful breast!

Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shieldsWith rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields:Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend; — A scene more fair than what the Grecian feignsOf purple lights and ever-vernal plains;Here all the seasons revel hand in hand:‘Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fannedThey sport beneath that mountain’s matchless heightThat holds no commerce with the summer night.From age to age, throughout his lonely boundsThe crash of ruin fitfully resounds;Appalling havoc! but serene his brow,Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow;Glitter the stars, and all is black below.

What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh,While roars the sullen Arve in anger by,That not for thy reward, unrivall’d Vale!Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale;That thou, the slave of slaves, art doomed to pineAnd droop, while no Italian arts are thine,To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine.

Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray,With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way,On the bleak sides of Cumbria’s heath-clad moors,Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland’s shores;To scent the sweets of Piedmont’s breathing rose,And orange gale that o’er Lugano blows;Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails,That virtue languishes and pleasure fails,While the remotest hamlets blessings shareIn thy loved presence known, and only there;Heart-blessings — outward treasures too which the eyeOf the sun peeping through the clouds can spy,And every passing breeze will testify.There, to the porch, belike with jasmine boundOr woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound;The housewife there a brighter garden sees,Where hum on busier wing her happy bees;On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow;And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow, — To greet the traveller needing food and rest;Housed for the night, or but a half-hour’s guest.

And oh, fair France! though now the traveller seesThy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;Though martial songs have banished songs of love,And nightingales desert the village grove,Scared by the fife and rumbling drum’s alarms,And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh,Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry! — Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her powerBeyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door:All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyesHer fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.Yes, as I roamed where Loiret’s waters glideThrough rustling aspens heard from side to side,When from October clouds a milder lightFell where the blue flood rippled into white;Methought from every cot the watchful birdCrowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard;Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams,Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams;Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leafAwoke a fainter sense of moral grief;The measured echo of the distant flailWound in more welcome cadence down the vale;With more majestic course the water rolled,And ripening foliage shone with richer gold. — But foes are gathering — Liberty must raiseRed on the hills her beacon’s far-seen blaze;Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower! — Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour!Rejoice, brave Land, though pride’s perverted ireRouse hell’s own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire:Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth;As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth! — All cannot be: the promise is too fairFor creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air:Yet not for this will sober reason frownUpon that promise, not the hope disown;She knows that only from high aims ensueRich guerdons, and to them alone are due.

Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighedIn an impartial balance, give thine aidTo the just cause; and, oh! do thou presideOver the mighty stream now spreading wide:So shall its waters, from the heavens suppliedIn copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs,Brood o’er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings!And grant that every sceptred child of clayWho cries presumptuous, “Here the flood shall stay,”May in its progress see thy guiding hand,And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand;Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore,Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more!

To-night, my Friend, within this humble cotBe scorn and fear and hope alike forgotIn timely sleep; and when, at break of day,On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play,With a light heart our course we may renew,The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew.

GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

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 close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as 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 some 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.

I

A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain

Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;

Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain

Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air

Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care

Both of the time to come, and time long fled:

Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;

A coat he wore of military red

But faded, and stuck o’er with many a patch and shred.

II

While thus he journeyed, step by step led on,

He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure

That welcome in such house for him was none.

No board inscribed the needy to allure

Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor

And desolate, “Here you will find a friend!”

The pendent grapes glittered above the door;—

On he must pace, perchance ‘till night descend,

Where’er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

III

The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire,

In streaks diverging wide and mounting high;

That inn he long had passed; the distant spire,

Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,

Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky.

Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around,

And scarce could any trace of man descry,

Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;

But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

IV

No tree was there, no meadow’s pleasant green,

No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear;

Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen,

But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer.

Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near;

And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain;

No voice made answer, he could only hear

Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain,

Or whistling thro’ thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.

V

Long had he fancied each successive slope

Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn

And rest; but now along heaven’s darkening cope

The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne.

Thus warned he sought some shepherd’s spreading thorn

Or hovel from the storm to shield his head,

But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn,

And vacant, a huge waste around him spread;

The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.

VI

And be it so—for to the chill night shower

And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared;

A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour

Hath told; for, landing after labour hard,

Full long endured in hope of just reward,

He to an armed fleet was forced away

By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared

Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey,

‘Gainst all that in ‘his’ heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay.

VII

For years the work of carnage did not cease,

And death’s dire aspect daily he surveyed,

Death’s minister; then came his glad release,

And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made

Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy’s aid

The happy husband flies, his arms to throw

Round his wife’s neck; the prize of victory laid

In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow

As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.

VIII

Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned.

The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood

Even in the desert’s heart; but he, returned,

Bears not to those he loves their needful food.

His home approaching, but in such a mood

That from his sight his children might have run.

He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood;

And when the miserable work was done

He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer’s fate to shun.

IX

From that day forth no place to him could be

So lonely, but that thence might come a pang

Brought from without to inward misery.

Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang

A sound of chains along the desert rang;

He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high

A human body that in irons swang,

Uplifted by the tempest whirling by;

And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.

X

It was a spectacle which none might view,

In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain;

Nor only did for him at once renew

All he had feared from man, but roused a train

Of the mind’s phantoms, horrible as vain.

The stones, as if to cover him from day,

Rolled at his back along the living plain;

He fell, and without sense or motion lay;

But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way.

XI

As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires

Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed

Profounder quiet, when the fit retires,

Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed

His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost,

Left his mind still as a deep evening stream.

Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed,

Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem

To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.

XII

Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled,

Gone is the raven timely rest to seek;

He seemed the only creature in the wild

On whom the elements their rage might wreak;

Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak

Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light

A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek,

And half upon the ground, with strange affright,

Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.

XIII

All, all was cheerless to the horizon’s bound;

The weary eye—which, wheresoe’er it strays,

Marks nothing but the red sun’s setting round,

Or on the earth strange lines, in former days

Left by gigantic arms—at length surveys

What seems an antique castle spreading wide;

Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise

Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide

He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.

XIV

Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep

Thy secrets, thou that lov’st to stand and hear

The Plain resounding to the whirlwind’s sweep,

Inmate of lonesome Nature’s endless year;

Even if thou saw’st the giant wicker rear

For sacrifice its throngs of living men,

Before thy face did ever wretch appear,

Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain

Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain.

XV

Within that fabric of mysterious form,

Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme;

And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm

And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream

From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam,

Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led;

Once did the lightning’s faint disastrous gleam

Disclose a naked guide-post’s double head,

Sight which tho’ lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed.

XVI

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm

To stay his steps with faintness overcome;

‘Twas dark and void as ocean’s watery realm

Roaring with storms beneath night’s starless gloom;

No gipsy cowered o’er fire of furze or broom;

No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright,

Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man’s room;

Along the waste no line of mournful light

From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.

XVII

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose;

The downs were visible—and now revealed

A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.

It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,

Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build

A lonely Spital, the belated swain

From the night terrors of that waste to shield:

But there no human being could remain,

And now the walls are named the “Dead House” of the plain.

 XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abode

Of man, or covet sight of mortal face,

Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,

How glad he was at length to find some trace

Of human shelter in that dreary place.

Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,

Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace.

In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows

He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close;

XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come

From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,

And saw a woman in the naked room

Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed:

The moon a wan dead light around her shed.

He waked her—spake in tone that would not fail,

He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped,

For of that ruin she had heard a tale

Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;

XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,

Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat

Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,

While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat;

Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet,

Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse:

The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat,

Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force

Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse.

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

But soon his voice and words of kind intent

Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind

In fainter howlings told its ‘rage’ was spent:

Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,

Which by degrees a confidence of mind

And mutual interest failed not to create.

And, to a natural sympathy resigned,

In that forsaken building where they sate

The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.

 XXIII

“By Derwent’s side my father dwelt—a man

Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred;

And I believe that, soon as I began

To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,

And in his hearing there my prayers I said:

And afterwards, by my good father taught,

I read, and loved the books in which I read;

For books in every neighbouring house I sought,

And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

XXIV

“A little croft we owned—a plot of corn,

A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,

And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn

Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.

Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!

My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce espied;

The cowslip-gathering in June’s dewy prime;

The swans that with white chests upreared in pride

Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side.

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 I 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

“The suns of twenty summers danced along,—

Too little marked how fast they rolled away:

But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,

My father’s substance fell into decay:

We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day

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 surveyed,

Peering above the trees, the steeple tower

That on his marriage day sweet music made!

Tilt 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;

And I in truth did love him like a brother,

For never could I hope to meet with such another.

XXIX

“Two years were passed since to a distant town

He had repaired to ply a gainful trade:

What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown!

What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed!

To him we turned:—we had no other aid:

Like one revived, upon his neck I wept;

And her whom he had loved in joy, he said,

He well could love in grief; his faith he kept;

And in a quiet home once more my father slept.

XXX

“We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest

With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.

Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast;

And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,

And knew not why. My happy father died,

When threatened war reduced the children’s meal:

Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide

The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal.

XXXI

“‘Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;

We had no hope, and no relief could gain:

But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum

Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain.

My husband’s arms now only served to strain

Me and his children hungering in his view;

In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:

To join those miserable men he flew,

And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

 XXXII

“There were we long neglected, and we bore

Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed;

Green fields before us, and our native shore,

We breathed a pestilential air, that made

Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed

For our departure; wished and wished—nor knew,

‘Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed,

That happier days we never more must view.

The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew.

 XXXIII

“But the calm summer season now was past.

On as we drove, the equinoctial deep

Ran mountains high before the howling blast,

And many perished in the whirlwind’s sweep.

We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep,

Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,

Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,

That we the mercy of the waves should rue:

We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.

 XXXIV

“The pains and plagues that on our heads came down,

Disease and famine, agony and fear,

In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,

It would unman the firmest heart to hear.

All perished—all in one remorseless year,

Husband and children! one by one, by sword

And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear

Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board

A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.”

XXXV

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn,

Nor voice nor sound, that moment’s pain expressed,

Yet Nature, with excess of grief o’erborne,

From her full eyes their watery load released.

He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased,

He rose, and to the ruin’s portal went,

And saw the dawn opening the silvery east

With rays of promise, north and southward sent;

And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament.

 XXXVI

“O come,” he cried, “come, after weary night

Of such rough storm, this happy change to view.”

So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight

Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw;

Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue

Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,