be, as it proved, Moss Paul, the inn where we were to bait. The scene,
with this single dwelling, was melancholy and wild, but not dreary,
though there was no tree nor shrub; the small streamlet glittered, the
hills were populous with sheep; but the gentle bending of the valley, and
the correspondent softness in the forms of the hills, were of themselves
enough to delight the eye. At Moss Paul we fed our horse;--several
travellers were drinking whisky. We neither ate nor drank, for we had,
with our usual foresight and frugality in travelling, saved the
cheese-cakes and sandwiches which had been given us by our countrywoman
at Jedburgh the day before. After Moss Paul, we ascended considerably,
then went down other reaches of the valley, much less interesting, stony
and barren. The country afterwards not peculiar, I should think, for I
scarcely remember it.
Arrived at Langholm at about five o'clock. The town, as we approached,
from a hill, looked very pretty, the houses being roofed with blue
slates, and standing close to the river Esk, here a large river, that
scattered its waters wide over a stony channel. The inn neat and
comfortable--exceedingly clean: I could hardly believe we were still in
Scotland.
After tea walked out; crossed a bridge, and saw, at a little distance up
the valley, Langholm House, a villa of the Duke of Buccleuch: it stands
upon a level between the river and a steep hill, which is planted with
wood. Walked a considerable way up the river, but could not go close to
it on account of the Duke's plantations, which are locked up. When they
ended, the vale became less cultivated; the view through the vale towards
the hills very pleasing, though bare and cold.
* * * * *
_Saturday_, _September_ 24_th_.--Rose very early and travelled about nine
miles to Longtown, before breakfast, along the banks of the Esk. About
half a mile from Langholm crossed a bridge. At this part of the vale,
which is narrow, the steeps are covered with old oaks and every variety
of trees. Our road for some time through the wood, then came to a more
open country, exceedingly rich and populous; the banks of the river
frequently rocky, and hung with wood; many gentlemen's houses. There was
the same rich variety while the river continued to flow through Scottish
grounds; but not long after we had passed through the last turnpike gate
in Scotland and the first in England--but a few yards asunder--the vale
widens, and its aspect was cold, and even dreary, though Sir James
Graham's plantations are very extensive. His house, a large building,
stands in this open part of the vale. Longtown was before us, and ere
long we saw the well-remembered guide-post, where the circuit of our six
weeks' travels had begun, and now was ended.
We did not look along the white line of the road to Solway Moss without
some melancholy emotion, though we had the fair prospect of the
Cumberland mountains full in view, with the certainty, barring accidents,
of reaching our own dear home the next day. Breakfasted at the Graham's
Arms. The weather had been very fine from the time of our arrival at
Jedburgh, and this was a very pleasant day. The sun 'shone fair on
Carlisle walls' when we first saw them from the top of the opposite hill.
Stopped to look at the place on the sand near the bridge where Hatfield
had been executed. Put up at the same inn as before, and were recognised
by the woman who had waited on us. Everybody spoke of Hatfield as an
injured man. After dinner went to a village six miles further, where we
slept.
* * * * *
_Sunday_, _September_ 25_th_, 1803.--A beautiful autumnal day.
Breakfasted at a public-house by the road-side; dined at Threlkeld;
arrived at home between eight and nine o'clock, where we found Mary in
perfect health, Joanna Hutchinson with her, and little John asleep in the
clothes-basket by the fire.
* * * * *
SONNET
COMPOSED BETWEEN DALSTON AND GRASMERE,
SEPTEMBER 25TH, 1803.
Fly, some kind spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's light
Glad tidings!--spread them over field and height,
But, chiefly, let one Cottage hear the tale!
There let a mystery of joy prevail,
The kitten frolic with unruly might,
And Rover whine as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good, that will not fail:
And from that Infant's face let joy appear;
Yea, let our Mary's one companion child,
That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled
With intimations manifold and dear,
While we have wander'd over wood and wild--
Smile on its Mother now with bolder cheer!
APPENDIX A.
'_And think and fear_.'--PAGE 11.
The entire Poem as given in the works of the Poet stands thus:--
TO THE SONS OF BURNS,
after visiting the grave of their father.
'The Poet's grave is in a corner of the churchyard. We looked at it
with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his
own verses--
"Is there a man whose judgment clear," etc.'
_Extract from the Journal of my Fellow-Traveller_.
'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
I sought the untimely grave of Burns;
Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns
With sorrow true;
And more would grieve, but that it turns
Trembling to you!
Through twilight shades of good and ill
Ye now are panting up life's hill,
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display;
If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.
Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,
Like him can speed
The social hour--of tenfold care
There will be need;
For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,--and fool and rake
Your steps pursue;
And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.
Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the quire
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;
There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;
Or where, 'mid 'lonely heights and hows,'
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honourable brows
Bedewed with toil,
While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;
His judgment with benignant ray
Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;
Nor deem that 'light which leads astray,
Is light from Heaven.'
Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
And such revere;
But be admonished by his grave,
And think, and fear!
Two other Poems on the same subject may fitly be inserted in this place,
though, as appears from the Poet's notes, one of them at least belongs to
a later date.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thoughts of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here,
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
Off weight--nor press on weight!--away
Dark thoughts!--they came, but not to stay;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
He sang, his genius 'glinted' forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth
With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The struggling heart, where be they now?--
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one
More deeply grieved, for He was gone
Whose light I hailed when first it shone,
And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends,
Regret pursues and with it blends,--
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen,
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
We might have been;
True friends though diversely inclined;
But heart with heart and mind with mind,
Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow;
Thou 'poor Inhabitant below,'
At this dread moment--even so--
Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placed
Within my reach; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repast!
But why go on?--
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,
His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight.
For _he_ is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race.
May He who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid,
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.
From the notes appended to the latest editions of Wordsworth's works, it
appears that the preceding poem, 'though _felt_ at the time, was not
composed till many years afterwards.'
THOUGHTS
SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH,
NEAR THE POET'S RESIDENCE.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed--'The Vision' tells us how--
With holly spray,
He faultered, drifted to and fro,
And passed away.
Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Burns we hung
In social grief--
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair,
Let us beside this limpid Stream
Breathe hopeful air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His course was true,
When Wisdom prospered in his sight,
And Virtue grew.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Our pleasure varying at command
Of each sweet Lay.
How oft inspired must he have trod
These pathways, yon far-stretching road!
There lurks his home; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
Before it humbly let us pause,
And ask of Nature, from what cause,
And by what rules
She trained her Burns to win applause
That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Are felt the flashes of his pen;
He rules 'mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill their hives;
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings?
Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;
The rueful conflict, the heart riven
With vain endeavour,
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven,
Effaced for ever.
But why to Him confine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all that live?--
The best of what we do and are,
Just God, forgive!
APPENDIX B.
'_The Waterfall_, _Cora Linn_.'--PAGE 36.
The following poem belongs to the series entitled _Memorials of a Tour in
Scotland_, 1814. It is in a later, not better, manner than those of
1803. Prefixed to it in the later editions of the Poet's works are these
words: 'I had seen this celebrated waterfall twice before. But the
feelings to which it had given birth were not expressed till they
recurred in presence of the object on this occasion.'
COMPOSED AT CORA LINN,
IN SIGHT OF WALLACE'S TOWER.
'--How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
All over his dear Country; left the deeds
Of Wallace, like a family of ghosts,
To people the steep rocks and river banks,
Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
Of independence and stern liberty.'--_MS_.
Lord of the vale! astounding Flood;
The dullest leaf in this thick wood
Quakes--conscious of thy power;
The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates to its central stone,
Yon time-cemented Tower!
And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been
Beneficent as strong;
Pleased in refreshing dews to steep
The little trembling flowers that peep
Thy shelving rocks among.
Hence all who love their country, love
To look on thee--delight to rove
Where they thy voice can hear;
And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade,
Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid
In dust, that voice is dear!
Along thy banks, at dead of night,
Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight;
Or stands, in warlike vest,
Aloft, beneath the moon's pale beam,
A Champion worthy of the stream,
Yon grey tower's living crest!
But clouds and envious darkness hide
A Form not doubtfully descried:--
Their transient mission o'er,
O say to what blind region flee
These Shapes of awful phantasy?
To what untrodden shore?
Less than divine command they spurn;
But this we from the mountains learn,
And this the valleys show;
That never will they deign to hold
Communion where the heart is cold
To human weal and woe.
The man of abject soul in vain
Shall walk the Marathonian plain;
Or thrill the shadowy gloom,
That still invests the guardian Pass,
Where stood, sublime, Leonidas
Devoted to the tomb.
Nor deem that it can aught avail
For such to glide with oar or sail
Beneath the piny wood,
Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake,
His vengeful shafts--prepared to slake
Their thirst in Tyrants' blood.
APPENDIX C.
'_Poured out these verses_.'--PAGE 139.
ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE.
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off--abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!
Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring.--Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
The chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard
The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character--the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!
'The first three lines were thrown off at the moment I first caught sight
of the ruin from a small eminence by the wayside; the rest was added many
years after.'--_Wordsworth's Life_.
APPENDIX D.
'_Loch Leven_.'--PAGE 165.
THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY.
A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE
OF GRASMERE.
'The story was told me by George Mackreth, for many years parish-clerk of
Grasmere. He had been an eye-witness of the occurrence. The vessel in
reality was a washing-tub, which the little fellow had met with on the
shore of the loch.'
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest
This corner is your own.
There! take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly:
And, as I promised, I will tell
That strange adventure which befel
A poor blind Highland Boy.
A _Highland_ Boy!--why call him so?
Because, my Darlings, ye must know
That, under hills which rise like towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.
He ne'er had seen one earthly sight,
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.
And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;
For God took pity on the Boy,
And was his friend; and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.
His Mother, too, no doubt, above
Her other children him did love:
For, was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than mother's love.
And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To Kirk he on the sabbath day
Went hand in hand with her.
A dog too, had he; not for need,
But one to play with and to feed;
Which would have led him, if bereft
Of company or friends, and left
Without a better guide.
And then the bagpipes he could blow--
And thus from house to house would go;
And all were pleased to hear and see,
For none made sweeter melody
Than did the poor blind Boy.
Yet he had many a restless dream;
Both when he heard the eagles scream,
And when he heard the torrents roar,
And heard the water beat the shore
Near which their cottage stood.
Beside a lake their cottage stood,
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
But one of mighty size, and strange;
That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
And stirring in its bed.
For to this lake, by night and day,
The great Sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills
And drinks up all the pretty rills
And rivers large and strong:
Then hurries back the road it came--
Returns, on errand still the same;
This did it when the earth was new;
And this for evermore will do,
As long as earth shall last.
And, with the coming of the tide,
Come boats and ships that safely ride
Between the woods and lofty rocks;
And to the shepherds with their flocks
Bring tales of distant lands.
And of those tales, whate'er they were,
The blind Boy always had his share;
Whether of mighty towns, or vales
With warmer suns and softer gales,
Or wonders of the Deep.
Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,
When from the water-side he heard
The shouting, and the jolly cheers;
The bustle of the mariners
In stillness or in storm.
But what do his desires avail?
For He must never handle sail;
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat,
Upon the rocking waves.
His Mother often thought, and said,
What sin would be upon her head
If she should suffer this: 'My Son,
Whate'er you do, leave this undone;
The danger is so great.'
Thus lived he by Loch-Leven's side
Still sounding with the sounding tide,
And heard the billows leap and dance,
Without a shadow of mischance,
Till he was ten years old.
When one day (and now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befel)
He in a vessel of his own,
On the swift flood is hurrying down,
Down to the mighty Sea.
In such a vessel never more
May human creature leave the shore!
If this or that way he should stir,
Woe to the poor blind Mariner!
For death will be his doom.
But say what bears him?--Ye have seen
The Indian's bow, his arrows keen,
Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;
Gifts which, for wonder or delight,
Are brought in ships from far.
Such gifts had those seafaring men
Spread round that haven in the glen;
Each hut, perchance, might have its own,
And to the Boy they all were known--
He knew and prized them all.
The rarest was a Turtle-shell
Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
A shell of ample size, and light
As the pearly car of Amphitrite,
That sportive dolphins drew.
And, as a Coracle that braves
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,
This shell upon the deep would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim
Above the tossing surge.
And this the little blind Boy knew:
And he a story strange yet true
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English Boy, O thought of bliss!
Had stoutly launched from shore;
Launched from the margin of a bay
Among the Indian isles, where lay
His father's ship, and had sailed far--
To join that gallant ship of war,
In his delightful shell.
Our Highland Boy oft visited
The house that held this prize; and, led
By choice or chance, did thither come
One day when no one was at home,
And found the door unbarred.
While there he sate, alone and blind,
That story flashed upon his mind;--
A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,
And bore it on his head.
He launched his vessel,--and in pride
Of spirit, from Loch-Leven's side,
Stepped into it--his thoughts all free
As the light breezes that with glee
Sang through the adventurer's hair.
A while he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion--took his seat;
Still better pleased as more and more
The tide retreated from the shore,
And sucked, and sucked him in.
And there he is in face of Heaven.
How rapidly the Child is driven!
The fourth part of a mile, I ween,
He thus had gone, ere he was seen
By any human eye.
But when he was first seen, oh me,
What shrieking and what misery!
For many saw; among the rest
His Mother, she who loved him best,
She saw her poor blind Boy.
But for the child, the sightless Boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,
Was never half so blessed.
And let him, let him go his way,
Alone, and innocent, and gay!
For, if good Angels love to wait
On the forlorn unfortunate,
This Child will take no harm.
But now the passionate lament,
Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
The cries which broke from old and young
In Gaelic, or the English tongue,
Are stifled--all is still.
And quickly with a silent crew,
A boat is ready to pursue;
And from the shore their course they take,
And swiftly down the running lake
They follow the blind Boy.
But soon they move with softer pace;
So have ye seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest
With deftly-lifted oar;
Or as the wily sailors crept
To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing shell,
They steal upon their prey.
With sound the least that can be made,
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,
And guesses their intent.
'Lei-gha--Lei-gha'--he then cried out,
'Lei-gha--Lei-gha'--with eager shout;
Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,
And what he meant was, 'Keep away,
And leave me to myself!'
Alas! and when he felt their hands--
You've often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,
Or melt it into air:
So all his dreams--that inward light
With which his soul had shone so bright--
All vanished;--'twas a heart-felt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,
As he had ever known.
But hark! a gratulating voice,
With which the very hills rejoice:
'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly
Have watched the event, and now can see
That he is safe at last.
And then, when he was brought to land,
Full sure they were a happy band,
Which, gathering round, did on the banks
Of that great Water give God thanks,
And welcomed the poor Child.
And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boy's little dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master's hands in sign of bliss,
With sound like lamentation.
But most of all, his Mother dear,
She who had fainted with her fear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
And touches the blind Boy.
She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again:
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
She kissed him--how could she chastise?
She was too happy far.
Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased and reconciled
To live in peace on shore.