XXIII.

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,

"Oh misery! oh misery!

O woe is me! oh misery!"

_WE ARE SEVEN._

A simple child, dear brother Jim,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That cluster'd round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair,

--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? seven in all," she said,

And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they, I pray you tell?"

She answered, "Seven are we,

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea."

"Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother,

And in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet you are seven; I pray you tell

Sweet Maid, how this may be?"

Then did the little Maid reply,

"Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little Maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side."

"My stockings there I often knit,

My 'kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit--

I sit and sing to them."

"And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there."

"The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain,

And then she went away."

"So in the church-yard she was laid,

And all the summer dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I."

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I,

"If they two are in Heaven?"

The little Maiden did reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

_ANECDOTE for FATHERS,

Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught._

I have a boy of five years old,

His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,

Our quiet house all full in view,

And held such intermitted talk

As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,

My pleasant home, when Spring began,

A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think, and think, and think again;

With so much happiness to spare,

I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim

And graceful in his rustic dress!

And oftentimes I talked to him

In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;

The morning sun shone bright and warm;

"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,

And so is Liswyn farm."

"My little boy, which like you more,"

I said and took him by the arm--

"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,

Or here at Liswyn farm?"

"And tell me, had you rather be,"

I said and held-him by the arm,

"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,

Or here at Liswyn farm?"

In careless mood he looked at me,

While still I held him by the arm,

And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be

Than here at Liswyn farm."

"Now, little Edward, say why so;

My little Edward, tell me why;"

"I cannot tell, I do not know."

"Why this is strange," said I.

"For, here are woods and green hills warm:

There surely must some reason be

Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,

For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head,

He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;

And five times to the child I said,

"Why, Edward, tell me, why?"

His head he raised--there was in sight,

It caught his eye, he saw it plain--

Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

And thus to me he made reply;

"At Kilve there was no weather-cock,

And that's the reason why."

Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart

For better lore would seldom yearn

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.

_LINES

Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by

my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed._

It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The red-breast sings from the tall larch

That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field.

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,

Make haste, your morning task resign;

Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you, and pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress,

And bring no book, for this one day

We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living Calendar:

We from to-day, my friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth,

--It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason;

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,

Which they shall long obey;

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above;

We'll frame the measure of our souls,

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister I come, I pray,

With speed put on your woodland dress,

And bring no book; for this one day

We'll give to idleness.

_THE FEMALE VAGRANT_

By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,

(The Woman thus her artless story told)

One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood

Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.

Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd:

With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore

My father's nets, or from the mountain fold

Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar

Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more

My father was a good and pious man,

An honest man by honest 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.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn

My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,

And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?

The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;

The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;

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

The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime;

The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,

From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.

The staff I yet remember which upbore

The bending body of my active sire;

His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore

When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;

When market-morning came, the neat attire

With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd;

My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,

When stranger passed, so often I have check'd;

The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,--

Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:

Then rose a stately hall our woods among,

And cottage after cottage owned its sway.

No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray

Through pastures not his own, the master took;

My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;

He loved his old hereditary nook,

And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook.

But when he had refused the proffered gold,

To cruel injuries he became a prey,

Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold:

His troubles grew upon him day by day,

Till all his substance fell into decay.

His little range of water was denied; [3]

All but the bed where his old body lay.

All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side,

We sought a home where we uninjured might abide.

[Footnote 3: Several of the Lakes in the north of England are let

out to different Fishermen, in parcels marked out by imaginary lines

drawn from rock to rock.]

Can I forget that 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?

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,

Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours!

There was a youth whom I had loved so long.

That when I loved him not I cannot say.

'Mid the green mountains many and many a 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.

His father said, that to a distant town

He must repair, to ply the artist's 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.

Four years each day with daily bread was blest,

By constant toil and constant prayer supplied.

Three lovely infants lay upon my breast;

And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,

And knew not why. My happy father died

When sad distress reduced the childrens' meal:

Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide

The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,

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

'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 sweep 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.

There foul neglect for months and months we bore,

Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.

Green fields before us and our native shore,

By fever, from polluted air incurred,

Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.

Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew,

'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd,

That happier days we never more must view:

The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew.

But from delay the summer calms were past.

On as we drove, the equinoctial deep

Ran mountains-high before the howling blast.

We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep

Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep,

Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue,

Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,

That we the mercy of the waves should rue.

We readied the western world, a poor, devoted crew.

Oh I dreadful price of being to resign

All that is dear _in_ being! better far

In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine,

Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star;

Or in the streets and walks where proud men are,

Better our dying bodies to obtrude,

Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war,

Protract a curst existence, with the brood

That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

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 thy brain unsettle even 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.

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain

By the first beams of dawning light impress'd;

In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main,

The very ocean has its hour of rest,

That comes not to the human mourner's breast.

Remote from man, and storms of mortal care,

A heavenly silence did the waves invest:

I looked and looked along the silent air,

Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.

Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps!

And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke:

The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps!

The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke!

The shriek that from the distant battle broke!

The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host

Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke

To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd,

Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!

Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame,

When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape,

While like a sea the storming army came,

And Fire from hell reared his gigantic shape,

And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape

Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child!

But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape!

--For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild,

And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled.

Some mighty gulph of separation past,

I seemed transported to another world:--

A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast

The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd,

And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled

The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home,

And from all hope I was forever hurled.

For me--farthest from earthly port to roam

Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might

come.

And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought

At last my feet a resting-place had found:

Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,)

Roaming the illimitable waters round;

Here watch, of every human friend disowned,

All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood--

To break my dream the vessel reached its bound:

And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,

And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food.

By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift,

Helpless as sailor cast on desart rock;

Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,

Nor dared my hand at any door to knock.

I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock

From the cross timber of an out-house hung;

How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock!

At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,

Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue.

So passed another day, and so the third:

Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort,

In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd,

Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort:

There, pains which nature could no more support,

With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall;

Dizzy my brain, with interruption short

Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl,

And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital.

Recovery came with food: but still, my brain

Was weak, nor of the past had memory.

I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain

Of many things which never troubled me;

Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,

Of looks where common kindness had no part.

Of service done with careless cruelty,

Fretting the fever round the languid heart,

And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.

These things just served to stir the torpid sense,

Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.

Memory, though slow, returned with strength: and thence

Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,

At houses, men, and common light, amazed.

The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired,

Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;

The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,

And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.

My heart is touched to think that men like these,

The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief:

How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!

And their long holiday that feared not grief,

For all belonged to all, and each was chief.

No plough their sinews strained; on grating road

No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf

In every vale for their delight was stowed:

For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed,

Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made

Of potters wandering on from door to door:

But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,

And other joys my fancy to allure;

The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor

In barn uplighted, and companions boon

Well met from far with revelry secure,

In depth of forest glade, when jocund June

Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

But ill it suited me, in journey dark

O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;

To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,

Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch;

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,

The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,

And ear still busy on its nightly watch,

Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill;

Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

What could I do, unaided and unblest?

Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:

And kindred of dead husband are at best

Small help, and, after marriage such as mine,

With little kindness would to me incline.

Ill was I then for toil or service fit:

With tears whose course no effort could confine,

By high-way side forgetful would I sit

Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields

And oft of cruelty the sky accused;

On hazard, or what general bounty yields.

Now coldly given, now utterly refused,

The fields I for my bed have often used:

But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth

Is, that I have my inner self abused,

Foregone the home delight of constant truth,

And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd,

In tears, the sun towards that country tend

Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:

And now across this moor my steps I bend--

Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend

Have I.--She ceased, and weeping turned away,

As if because her tale was at an end

She wept;--because she had no more to say

Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

_THE DUNGEON._

And this place our forefathers made for man!

This is the process of our love and wisdom

To each poor brother who offends against us--

Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty?

Is this the only cure? Merciful God!

Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up

By ignorance and parching poverty,

His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,

They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot.

Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks--

And this is their best cure! uncomforted.

And friendless solitude, groaning and tears.

And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,

By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies

Circled with evil, till his very soul

Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed

By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O nature!'

Healest thy wandering and distempered child:

Thou pourest on him thy soft influences.

Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sheets,

Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,

Till he relent, and can no more endure

To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,

Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;

But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,

His angry spirit healed and harmonized

By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

_SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

With an incident in which he was concerned._

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

An old man dwells, a little man,

I've heard he once was tall.

Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burthen weighty;

He says he is three score and ten,

But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,

That's fair behind, and fair before;

Yet, meet him where you will, you see

At once that he is poor.

Full five and twenty years he lived

A running huntsman merry;

And, though he has but one eye left,

His cheek is like a cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,

And no man was so full of glee;

To say the least, four counties round.

Had heard of Simon Lee;

His master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

His hunting feats have him bereft

Of his right eye, as you may see:

And then, what limbs those feats have left

To poor old Simon Lee!

He has no son, he has no child,

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,

Upon the village common.

And he is lean and he is sick,

His dwindled body's half awry,

His ancles they are swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

When he was young he little knew

'Of husbandry or tillage;

And now he's forced to work, though weak,

--The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the race was done,

He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming bounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices!

Old Ruth works out of doors with him.

And does what Simon cannot do;

For she, not over stout of limb,

Is stouter of the two.

And though you with your utmost skill

From labour could not wean them,

Alas! 'tis very little, all

Which they can do between them.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,

Not twenty paces from the door,

A scrap of land they have, but they

Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath

Enclosed when he was stronger;

But what avails the land to them,

Which they can till no longer?

Few months of life has he in store,

As he to you will-tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

His poor old ancles swell.

My gentle reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect

Some tale will be related.

O reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

I hope you'll kindly take it;

It is no tale; but should you think,

Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see

This old man doing all he could

About the root of an old tree,

A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock totter'd in his hand;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have worked for ever.

"You've overtasked, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool" to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he

Received my proffer'd aid.

I struck, and with a single blow

The tangled root I sever'd,

At which the poor old man so long

And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,

And thanks and praises seemed to run

So fast out of his heart, I thought

They never would have done.

--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning.

Alas! the gratitude of men

Has oftner left me mourning.

_LINES

Written in early Spring_.

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it griev'd my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes;

And 'tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made,

It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,

If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

_The NIGHTINGALE.

Written in April, 1798._

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.

Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

But hear no murmuring: it flows silently

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers

That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark! the Nightingale begins its song

"Most musical, most melancholy" [4] Bird!

A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

--But some night wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd

With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper or neglected love,

(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale

Of his own sorrows) he and such as he

First named these notes a melancholy strain:

And many a poet echoes the conceit;

Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme

[Footnote 4: "_Most musical, most melancholy_." This passage in

Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere

description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man,

and has therefore a _dramatic_ propriety. The Author makes this

remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with

levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more

painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.]

When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs

Beside a 'brook in mossy forest-dell

By sun or moonlight, to the influxes

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song

And of his fame forgetful! so his fame

Should share in nature's immortality,

A venerable thing! and so his song

Should make all nature lovelier, and itself

Be lov'd, like nature!--But 'twill not be so;

And youths and maidens most poetical

Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring

In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still

Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs

O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt

A different lore: we may not thus profane

Nature's sweet voices always full of love

And joyance! Tis the merry Nightingale

That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates

With fast thick warble his delicious notes,

As he were fearful, that an April night

Would be too short for him to utter forth

Hi? love-chant, and disburthen his full soul

Of all its music! And I know a grove

Of large extent, hard by a castle huge

Which the great lord inhabits not: and so

This grove is wild with tangling underwood,

And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,

Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.

But never elsewhere in one place I knew

So many Nightingales: and far and near

In wood and thicket over the wide grove

They answer and provoke each other's songs--

With skirmish and capricious passagings,

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug

And one low piping sound more sweet than all--

Stirring the air with such an harmony,

That should you close your eyes, you might almost

Forget it was not day!

A most gentle maid

Who dwelleth in her hospitable home

Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,

(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate

To something more than nature in the grove)

Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,

That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,

What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,

Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon

Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky

With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds

Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,

At if one quick and sudden Gale had swept

An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd

Many a Nightingale perch giddily

On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,

And to that motion tune his wanton song,

Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,

And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!

We have been loitering long and pleasantly,

And now for our dear homes.--That strain again!

Full fain it would delay me!-My dear Babe,

Who, capable of no articulate sound,

Mars all things with his imitative lisp,

How he would place his hand beside his ear,

His little hand, the small forefinger up,

And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well

The evening star: and once when he awoke

In most distressful mood (some inward pain

Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)

I hurried with him to our orchard plot,

And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once

Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,

While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears

Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well--

It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven

Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up

Familiar with these songs, that with the night

He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,

Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

_LINES

Written when sailing in a Boat At EVENING._

How rich the wave, in front, imprest

With evening twilights summer hues,

While, facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent path pursues!

And see how dark the backward stream!

A little moment past, so smiling!

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure,

But, heedless of the following gloom,

He deems their colours shall endure

'Till 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?

_LINES

Written near Richmond upon the Thames._

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other bards may see,

As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me.

Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

'Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,

That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a poet's heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such as did once the poet bless,

Who, pouring here a _later_ ditty,

Could find no refuge from distress,

But in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we float along,

For him suspend the dashing oar,

And pray that never child of Song

May know his freezing sorrows more.

How calm! how still! the only sound,

The dripping of the oar suspended!

--The evening darkness gathers round

By virtue's holiest powers attended. [5]

[Footnote 5: Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written,

I believe, of the poems which were published during his life-time.

This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.]