Before me shone a glorious world Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd To music suddenly:
I look'd upon those hills and plains, And seem'd as if let loose from chains To live at liberty!
No more of this-for now, by thee, Dear Ruth! more happily set free, With nobler zeal I burn;
My soul from darkness is released Like the whole sky when to the east The morning doth return.
Full soon that better mind was gone; No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,— They stirr'd him now no more; New objects did new pleasure give, And once again he wish'd to live As lawless as before.
Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, And went to the sea-shore:
But, when they thither came, the youth Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth Could never find him more.
God help thee, Ruth!-Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad
And in a prison housed;
And there, exulting in her wrongs
Among the music of her songs She fearfully caroused.
Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May,
-They all were with her in her cell; And a clear brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, There came a respite to her pain; She from her prison fled;
But of the vagrant none took thought; And where it liked her best she sought Her shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breathed again: The master-current of her brain Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the banks of Tone, There did she rest; and dwell alone Under the greenwood tree.
The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves-she loved them still,
Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
A barn her Winter bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of Summer skies
And Summer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old.
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold.
If she is prest by want of food
She from her dwelling in the wood Repairs to a road-side;
And there she begs at one steep place, Where up and down with easy pace The horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute Or thrown away: but with a flute Her loneliness she cheers;
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, At evening in his homeward walk The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have pass'd her on the hills Setting her little water-mills By spouts and fountains wild- Such small machinery as she turn'd Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, A young and happy child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told, Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing A Christian psalm for thee.
THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm. Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, And recognized it, though an alter'd form, Now standing forth an offering to the blast, And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,
'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold; This neither is its courage nor its choice, But its necessity in being old.
'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in its decay;
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'— And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
To be a prodigal's favourite-then, worse truth, A miser's pensioner-behold our lot!
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
IF from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell But for one object which you might pass by, Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a struggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that simple object appertains A story-unenriched with strange events, Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved;-not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think (At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts; And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful Poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes, When others heeded not, he heard the South Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 'The winds are now devising work for me!' And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives The traveller to a shelter, summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
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