"When summer suns lick up the dew,
And all the heavens are painted blue,
'Tis then with smiling cheeks we view,
The stranger at the Lakes.
When morning tips with gold the boughs,
And tinges Skiddaw's cloud-kiss'd brows,
Then round the lake the boatman rows,
The stranger at the Lakes.
When gray-rob'd evening steps serene,
Across the sweetly-varied green,
Beside some cascade may be seen
The stranger at the Lakes.
Embosomed here the rustic bard,
Who oft has thought his fortune hard,
Is pleas'd to share the kind regard
Of strangers at the Lakes.
He whose ideas never stray
Beyond the parson's gig and gray,
Stares at the carriage and relay
Of strangers at the Lakes.
As by his cot the phæton flies,
The peasant gapes with mouth and eyes,
And to his wond'ring family cries,
'A stranger at the Lakes!'
Sometimes when brewers' clerks appear,
And Boniface is short of gear,
He says, 'Kind Sirs, we've had, this year,
Few strangers at the Lakes.'
At Christmas, Poll, the barmaid, shows
Her lustre gown and new kid shoes,
And says, 'I tipp'd the cash for those
From strangers at the Lakes.'
But could the post-horse neighing say
What he has suffer'd night and day,
'Tis much, I think, if he would pray
For strangers at the Lakes."
Time, it is said, has wings; but Charles never observed that it even
moved, till he found himself in his twentieth year. That love which at
first sought only to relieve itself in the society of its object, now
began to assume a determined character. But to any but lovers, the
description of love scenes would be irksome. It will be quite sufficient
if we hint at the affair, and leave our readers to fill up the outline.
We will only therefore assure them on the best authority, that Charles
set out no less than three several times with a resolute determination
to declare the full extent of his passion, and solicit the fair hand of
Maria; and that as soon as he saw the maid, his purpose "dissolved like
the baseless fabric of a vision;" that Charles at length conquered this
timidity, and urged his suit with such ardour, that he was heard
afterwards to say he believed love was like steam, the more it was
compressed, the greater was its elasticity; that Maria received the
declaration with all due bashfulness, and promised to be his bride as
soon as she had completed her twenty-first year; that Charles, as is
usual on such occasions, flew home on the wings of ecstasy, &c. It seems
to have been about this time that the following birthday ode was
written--perhaps while he was suffering under the effects of his own
bashfulness:--
"Maria, this is just the day,
Some twenty years ago, they say,
You fill'd your mother's arms;
A little puling sprig of love,
So kindly dropp'd from heaven above,
To bless me with your charms.
Obeying custom, I intend
Some little birthday gift to send--
But stay, what must it be?
Of beauty you have quite a share,
Accomplish'd too, as well as fair,
And richer far than me.
I would not ever have it said,
I offer'd trinkets to the maid,
Which you might scorn to take;
I'll offer then no works of art;
I'll give you, love, an honest heart--
Pray, keep it for my sake."
Our correspondent says he would be happy if he could here conclude his
narrative, as Sir Walter Scott does, with a happy marriage; for however
delightful the transition from sorrow to joy may be, the reverse, even
in description, has no charms. But poor Charles was doomed to be hurled
from the height of his felicity to the lowest depths of despair. The
joyful promise had scarcely escaped the lovely lips of Maria, and while
her lover was yet giddy with his joy, when the amiable maid was attacked
by a severe illness, which baffled all the doctor's skill. If entreaties
for human or divine aid could have prolonged the existence of the
ill-fated Maria, she had not died. Charles was ever at her pillow--his
studies were relinquished--his poetry was neglected--and the dying Maria
filled the whole extent of his capacious mind. But all was vain; the
grisly monster Death had selected her as his victim, and he would not
quit his hold; he was deaf alike to the lamentations of a parent, the
regrets of friends, and the distractions of a betrothed lover.
Though every succeeding morning showed how great was the havoc that
disease was making in her tender frame, and the period of her suffering
was evidently approaching, Charles still hoped she would soon be well.
If she was more than usually debilitated, he observed that the fever had
left her, and she only wanted her strength recruiting, and they would
then renew their walks. If the hectic flush overspread her cheeks, he
hailed it as the sign of returning health. And thus he hoped even
against hope. His reason would have convinced him she was dying, if
reason had been allowed to speak; but he wished her to live, and he
would not stoop to think that she would die. Thus he fulfilled the
remarks of the poet--
"We join in the fraud, and ourselves we deceive,
What we wish to be true, love bids us believe."
When at last the pale hue of death overspread her once-blooming cheek,
when she turned her languid eye towards her lover and faltered
"farewell," when she closed her faded eyes and expired in prayer,
Charles stood by the bedside like a being bereft of power and motion.
The deepest despair overwhelmed him--his hopes were blasted--his fond
creation of future bliss was in an instant destroyed, and his mind
received a shock too powerful for nature to sustain.
From this moment a smile was never seen to illuminate his features, the
most gloomy and secluded places were his favourite haunts. He avoided
society as if the breath of man was pestilential; and occupied his time
in brooding over his own melancholy. In his manuscript we find a number
of melancholy effusions, which were evidently written about this time;
and clearly bespeak a mind bordering on the gloomy verge of insanity.
But as they are some of them by far the best pieces in the collection--a
proof that poetry and madness are nearly allied--we will select two
which tend to illustrate the awful state of the writer's mind.