No More Learning

. It is with me, when I write,
as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
he would not have loved, and enjoyed. . . . My consolations rather come
to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle. . . . He was taken away
in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done. ' I have no
doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
not awaken a pang. . . . He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
planted. . . . He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come
to us about the end of January. During that time Mary Hutchinson--now
Mary Wordsworth--staid with us six weeks. John used to walk with her
everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my
poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who
was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an
intimate knowledge of him. Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on
John. . . . I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am
very tranquil to-day. I honour him, and love him, and glory in his
memory. . . . "

Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805,
says:

"DEAR WYNN,

I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the
'Abergavenny', of which Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course
the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
which accompany it. . . . "

(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321. )

The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:

"MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--

I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.

. . .

"Why is he wandering on the sea? --
Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
By slow degrees he'd steal away
Their woes, and gently bring a ray
(So happily he'd time relief,)
Of comfort from their very grief.
He'd tell them that their brother dead,
When years have passed o'er their head,
Will be remembered with such holy,
True and tender melancholy,
That ever this lost brother John
Will be their heart's companion.
His voice they'll always hear,
His face they'll always see;
There's naught in life so sweet
As such a memory. "

(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234. )--Ed.





* * * * *





"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"


Composed 1800 to 1805. --Published 1815


[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we
lived at Town-end. --I. F. ]

This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of Places. " For several
suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385. --Ed.




When, to the attractions of the busy world,
Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
Sharp season followed of continual storm
In deepest winter; and, from week to week, 5
Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
At a short distance from my cottage, stands
A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof 10
Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth 15
To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds
That, for protection from the nipping blast,
Hither repaired. --A single beech-tree grew
Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork
Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest; 20
A last year's nest, conspicuously built
At such small elevation from the ground
As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
Of nature and of love had made their home
Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long 25
Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--
Some nook where they had made their final stand, 30
Huddling together from two fears--the fear
Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
In such perplexed and intricate array; 35
That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems
A length of open space, where to and fro
My feet might move without concern or care;
And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed, 40
I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized,
Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned
To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day, 45
By chance retiring from the glare of noon
To this forsaken covert, there I found
A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
And winding on with such an easy line
Along a natural opening, that I stood 50
Much wondering how I could have sought in vain [3]
For what was now so obvious. [4] To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; [5] 55
And with the sight of this same path--begun,
Begun and ended, in the shady grove, [6]
Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind [7]
That, to this opportune recess allured,
He had surveyed it with a finer eye, 60
A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track [8]
By pacing here, unwearied and alone, [A]
In that habitual restlessness of foot
That haunts the Sailor measuring [9] o'er and o'er
His short domain upon the vessel's deck, 65
While she pursues her course [10] through the dreary sea.

When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
And taken thy first leave of those green hills
And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
Year followed year, my Brother! and we two, 70
Conversing not, knew little in what mould
Each other's mind was fashioned; [11] and at length
When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
Between us there was little other bond
Than common feelings of fraternal love. 75
But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried
Undying recollections; Nature there
Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
A _silent_ Poet; from the solitude 80
Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours 85
Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now
I love the fir-grove [12] with a perfect love.
Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;
And there I sit at evening, when the steep 90
Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful [13] lake,
And one green island, gleam between the stems
Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight 95
Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
Muttering the verses which I muttered first
Among the mountains, through the midnight watch 100
Art pacing thoughtfully [14] the vessel's deck
In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
At every impulse of the moving breeze,
The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, [B]
Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know, 105
Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
Of undistinguishable sympathies,
Mingling most earnest wishes for the day
When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale. 110


* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

. . . between . . . 1815. ]


[Variant 2:

1836.

And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
I ceased that Shelter to frequent,--1815.

. . . the shelter . . . 1827. ]


[Variant 3:

1827.

Much wondering at my own simplicity
How I could e'er have made a fruitless search 1815. ]


[Variant 4:

. . . At the sight
Conviction also flashed upon my mind
That this same path (within the shady grove
Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps
Had been impressed. --. . .

These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820. ]


[Variant 5:

1845.

. . . To sojourn a short while
Beneath my roof He from the barren seas
Had newly come--a cherished Visitant! 1815.

. . . To abide,
For an allotted interval of ease,
Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come
From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; 1827.

Beneath my cottage roof, had gladly come 1840.

. . . had meanwhile come C. [a]]


[Variant 6: This and the previous line were added in 1827. ]


[Variant 7:

1827.

And much did it delight me to perceive 1815. ]


[Variant 8:

1827.

A heart more wakeful; that, more both to part
From place so lovely, he had worn the track 1815. ]


[Variant 9:

1845.

With which the Sailor measures . . . 1815. ]


[Variant 10:

1845.

While she is travelling . . . 1815. ]


[Variant 11:

1836.

. . . minds were fashioned;. . . 1815. ]


[Variant 12:

1827.

. . . art gone;
And now I call the path-way by thy name,
And love the fir-grove 1815. ]


[Variant 13:

1827.

. . . placid . . . 1815. ]


[Variant 14:

1827.

Art pacing to and fro . . . 1815. ]


* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Daniel's 'Hymens Triumph', ii. 4:

'And where no sun could see him, where no eye
Might overlook his lonely privacy;
There in a path of his own making, trod
Rare as a common way, yet led no way
Beyond the turns he made. '

Ed. ]


[Footnote B: Compare the line in Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in
the Vale of Chamouni':

'Ye pine groves with your soft and soul-like sound,'

Ed. ]


* * * * *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: In the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of
1836, there is a footnote in Wordsworth's handwriting to the word
"meanwhile" which is substituted for "newly. " "If 'newly' come, could he
have traced a visible path? "--Ed.
]



This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, not long after, perished
by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable
East India Company's Vessel, the 'Earl of Abergavenny'. --W. W. 1815.

For the date of this poem in the Chronological Tables given in the
editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth assigned the year 1802. But, in
the edition of 1836, he assigned it to the year 1805, the date retained
by Mr. Carter in the edition of 1857. Captain Wordsworth perished on the
5th of February 1805; and if the poem was written in 1805, it must have
been in the month of January of that year. The note to the poem is
explicit--"Not long after" he "perished by shipwreck," etc. Thus the
poem _may_ have been written in the beginning of 1805; but it is not at
all certain that part of it at least does not belong to an earlier year.
John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister at the Town-end
Cottage, Grasmere, during part of the winter, and during the whole of
the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, William and John going together
on foot into Yorkshire from the 14th of May to the 7th of June. John
left Grasmere on Michaelmas day (September 29th) 1800, and never
returned to it again. The following is Miss Wordsworth's record of that
day in her Journal of 1800:

"On Monday, 29th, John left us. William and I parted with him in sight
of Ullswater. It was a fine day, showery, but with sunshine and fine
clouds. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad, I could not help thinking
we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith. "

In the spring of 1801, John Wordsworth sailed for China in the
'Abergavenny'. He returned from this voyage in safety, and the brothers
met once again in London. He went to sea again in 1803, and returned to
London in 1804, but could not visit Grasmere; and in the month of
February 1805--shortly after he was appointed to the command of the
'Abergavenny'--the ship was lost at the Bill of Portland, and every one
on board perished. It is clear that the latter part of the poem, "When,
to the attractions of the busy world," was written between John
Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere and the loss of the 'Abergavenny',
i. e. between September 1800 and February 1805, as there are references
in it both to what his brother did at Grasmere and to his return to
sea:

'Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone. '

There are some things in the earlier part of the poem that appear to
negative the idea of its having been written in 1800. The opening lines
seem to hint at an experience somewhat distant. He speaks of being
"wont" to do certain things. But, on the other hand, I find an entry in
Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, which leads me to believe that the poem
may have been begun in 1800, and that the first part, ending (as it did
then) with the line:

'While she is travelling through the dreary sea,'

may have been finished before John Wordsworth left Grasmere;
the second part being written afterwards, while he was at sea;
and that this is the explanation of the date given in the editions
of 1815 and 1820, viz. 1802.

Passages occur in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal to the
following effect:

"Monday Morning, 1st September. --We walked in the wood by the lake.
William read 'Joanna' and 'the Firgrove' to Coleridge. "

A little earlier there is the record,

"Saturday, 22nd August. --William was composing all the morning. . . .
William read us the poem of 'Joanna' beside the Rothay by the
roadside. "

Then, on Friday, the 25th August, there is the entry,

"We walked over the hill by the Firgrove, I sate upon a rock and
observed a flight of swallows gathering together high above my head.
We walked through the wood to the stepping stones, the lake of Rydale
very beautiful, partly still, I left William to compose an
inscription, that about the path. . . . "

Then, next day,

"Saturday morning, 30th August. --William finished his inscription of
the Pathway, then walked in the wood, and when John returned he sought
him, and they bathed together. "

To what poem Dorothy Wordsworth referred under the name of the
"Inscription of the Pathway" has puzzled me much. There is no poem
amongst his "Inscriptions" (written in or before August 1800) that
corresponds to it in the least. But, if my conjecture is right that this
"Poem on the Naming of Places," beginning:

'When, to the attractions of the busy world,'

was composed at two different times, it is quite possible that "the
Firgrove" which was read--along with 'Joanna'--to Coleridge on September
1st, 1800, was the first part of this very poem.

If this supposition is correct, some light is cast both on the
"Inscription of the Pathway. " and on the date assigned by Wordsworth
himself to the poem. There is a certain fitness, however, in this poem
being placed--as it now is--in sequence to the 'Elegiac Verses' in
memory of John Wordsworth, beginning, "The Sheep-boy whistled loud," and
near the fourth poem 'To the Daisy', beginning, "Sweet Flower! belike
one day to have. "

The "Fir-grove" still exists. It is between Wishing Gate and White Moss
Common, and almost exactly opposite the former. Standing at the gate and
looking eastwards, the grove is to the left, not forty yards distant.
Some of the firs (Scotch ones) still survive, and several beech trees,
not "a single beech-tree," as in the poem. From this, one might infer
that the present colony had sprung up since the beginning of the
century, and that the special tree, in which was the thrush's nest, had
perished; but Dr. Cradock wrote to me that "Wordsworth pointed out the
tree to Miss Cookson a few days before Dora Wordsworth's death. The tree
is near the upper wall and tells its own tale. " The Fir-grove--"John's
Grove"--can easily be entered by a gate about a hundred yards beyond
the Wishing-gate, as one goes toward Rydal. The view from it, the
"visionary scene,"

'the spectacle
Of clouded splendour, . . . this dream-like sight
Of solemn loveliness,'

is now much interfered with by the new larch plantations immediately
below the firs. It must have been very different in Wordsworth's time,
and is constantly referred to in his sister's Journal as a favourite
retreat, resorted to

'when cloudless suns
Shone hot, or wind blew troublesome and strong. '

In the absence of contrary testimony, it might be supposed that "the
track" which the brother had "worn,"

'By pacing here, unwearied and alone,'

faced Silver-How and the Grasmere Island, and that the single beech tree
was nearer the lower than the upper wall. But Miss Cookson's testimony
is explicit. Only a few fir trees survive at this part of the grove,
which is now open and desolate, not as it was in those earlier days,
when

'the trees
Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
With such perplexed and intricate array,
That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems
A length of open space . . . '

Dr. Cradock remarks,

"As to there being more than one beech, Wordsworth would not have
hesitated to sacrifice servile exactness to poetical effect. " He had a
fancy for "one"--

'Fair as a star when only one
Is shining in the sky;'

"'One' abode, no more;" Grasmere's "one green island;" "one green
field. "

Since the above note was printed, new light has been cast on the
"Inscription of the Pathway," for which see volume viii. of this
edition. --Ed.





* * * * *





THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

BY MY SISTER


Composed 1805. --Published 1815


[Suggested to her, while beside my sleeping children. --I. F. ]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections. "--Ed.




The days are cold, the nights are long,
The north-wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty Love! 5

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one _wee_, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou? 10

Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little Darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day. 15



This poem underwent no change in successive editions. The title in all
the earlier ones (1815 to 1843) was 'The Cottager to her Infant. By a
Female Friend'; and in the preface to the edition of 1815, Wordsworth
wrote,

"Three short pieces (now first published) are the work of a Female
Friend; . . . if any one regard them with dislike, or be disposed to
condemn them, let the censure fall upon him, who, trusting in his own
sense of their merit, and their fitness for the place which they
occupy, _extorted_ them from the Authoress. "

In the edition of 1845, he disclosed the authorship; and gave the more
natural title, 'By my Sister'. Other two poems by her were introduced
into the edition of 1815, and subsequent ones, viz. the 'Address to a
Child', and 'The Mother's Return'. In an appendix to a MS. copy of the
'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland', by Dorothy Wordsworth,
transcribed by Mrs. Clarkson, I find the poem 'The Cottager to her
Infant' with two additional stanzas, which are there attributed to
Wordsworth. The appendix runs thus:

"To my Niece Dorothy, a sleepless Baby

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

(The third and fourth stanzas which follow by W. W. )

'Ah! if I were a lady gay
I should not grieve with thee to play;
Right gladly would I lie awake
Thy lively spirits to partake,
And ask no better cheer.

But, Babe! there's none to work for me.
And I must rise to industry;
Soon as the cock begins to crow
Thy mother to the fold must go
To tend the sheep and kine. '"

Ed.





* * * * *





THE WAGGONER [A]


Composed 1805. --Published 1819


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The characters and story from fact. --I.
F. ]


"In Cairo's crowded streets
The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain,
And Mecca saddens at the long delay. "

THOMSON. [B]



TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of 'Peter Bell', you asked
"why THE WAGGONER was not added? "--To say the truth,--from the higher
tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the
former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without
disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was
read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a
time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on
which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it
may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the
cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of
inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived
from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which
I am
Very truly yours,
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, _May 20th_, 1819.




CANTO FIRST


'Tis spent--this burning day of June!
Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;
The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,--
That solitary bird
Is all that can be heard [1] 5
In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!

Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night
Propitious to your earth-born light!
But, where the scattered stars are seen
In hazy straits the clouds between, 10
Each, in his station twinkling not,
Seems changed into a pallid spot. [2]
The mountains against heaven's grave weight
Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. [3]
The air, as in a lion's den, 15
Is close and hot;--and now and then
Comes a tired [4] and sultry breeze
With a haunting and a panting,
Like the stifling of disease;
But the dews [5] allay the heat, 20
And the silence makes it sweet.

Hush, there is some one on the stir!
'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner;
Who long hath trod this toilsome way,
Companion of the night and [6] day. 25
That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer,
Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound
In a moment lost and found,
The Wain announces--by whose side
Along the banks of Rydal Mere 30
He paces on, a trusty Guide,--
Listen! you can scarcely hear!
Hither he his course is bending;--
Now he leaves the lower ground,
And up the craggy hill ascending 35
Many a stop and stay he makes,
Many a breathing-fit he takes;--[7]
Steep the way and wearisome,
Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

The Horses have worked with right good-will, 40
And so [8] have gained the top of the hill;
He was patient, they were strong,
And now they smoothly glide along,
Recovering [9] breath, and pleased to win
The praises of mild Benjamin. 45
Heaven shield him from mishap and snare!
But why so early with this prayer?
Is it for threatenings in the sky?
Or for some other danger nigh?
No; none is near him yet, though he 50
Be one of much infirmity; [10]
For at the bottom of the brow,
Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Offered a greeting of good ale
To all who entered Grasmere Vale; 55
And called on him who must depart
To leave it with a jovial heart;
There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
A simple water-drinking Bard; 60
Why need our Hero then (though frail
His best resolves) be on his guard?
He marches by, secure and bold;
Yet while he thinks on times of old,
It seems that all looks wondrous cold; 65
He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
And, for the honest folk within,
It is a doubt with Benjamin
Whether they be alive or dead!

_Here_ is no danger,--none at all! 70
Beyond his wish he walks secure; [11]
But pass a mile--and _then_ for trial,--
Then for the pride of self-denial;
If he resist that tempting door,
Which with such friendly voice will call; 75
If he resist those casement panes,
And that bright gleam which thence will fall
Upon his Leaders' bells and manes,
Inviting him with cheerful lure:
For still, though all be dark elsewhere, 80
Some shining notice will be 'there'
Of open house and ready fare.

The place to Benjamin right well [12]
Is known, and by as strong a spell
As used to be that sign of love 85
And hope--the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE;
He knows it to his cost, good Man!
Who does not know the famous SWAN?
Object uncouth! and yet our boast, [13]
For it was painted by the Host; 90
His own conceit the figure planned,
'Twas coloured all by his own hand;
And that frail Child of thirsty clay,
Of whom I sing [14] this rustic lay,
Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 95
Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! [C]

Well! that is past--and in despite
Of open door and shining light.
And now the conqueror essays
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; 100
And with his team is gentle here
As when he clomb from Rydal Mere;
His whip they do not dread--his voice
They only hear it to rejoice.
To stand or go is at _their_ pleasure; 105
Their efforts and their time they measure
By generous pride within the breast;
And, while they strain, and while they rest,
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.

Now am I fairly safe to-night--110
And with proud cause my heart is light: [15]
I trespassed lately worse than ever--
But Heaven has blest [16] a good endeavour;
And, to my soul's content, [17] I find
The evil One is left behind. 115
Yes, let my master fume and fret,
Here am I--with my horses yet!
My jolly team, he finds that ye
Will work for nobody but me!
Full proof of this the Country gained; 120
It knows how ye were vexed and strained,
And forced unworthy stripes to bear,
When trusted to another's care. [18]
Here was it--on this rugged slope,
Which now ye climb with heart and hope, 125
I saw you, between rage and fear,
Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear,
And ever more and more confused,
As ye were more and more abused: [19]
As chance would have it, passing by 130
I saw you in that [20] jeopardy:
A word from me was like a charm; [D]
Ye pulled together with one mind; [21]
And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
Moved like a vessel in the wind! 135
--Yes, without me, up hills so high
'Tis vain to strive for mastery.
Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
The road we travel, steep, and rough; [22]
Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, 140
And all their fellow banks and braes,
Full often make you stretch and strain,
And halt for breath and halt again,
Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing
That side by side we still are going! 145

While Benjamin in earnest mood
His meditations thus pursued,
A storm, which had been smothered long,
Was growing inwardly more strong;
And, in its struggles to get free, 150
Was busily employed as he.
The thunder had begun to growl--
He heard not, too intent of soul;
The air was now without a breath--
He marked not that 'twas still as death. 155
But soon large rain-drops on his head [23]
Fell with the weight of drops of lead;--
He starts--and takes, at the admonition,
A sage survey of his condition. [24]
The road is black before his eyes, 160
Glimmering faintly where it lies;
Black is the sky--and every hill,
Up to the sky, is blacker still--
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, [25]
Hung round and overhung with gloom; 165
Save that above a single height
Is to be seen a lurid light,
Above Helm-crag [E]--a streak half dead,
A burning of portentous red;
And near that lurid light, full well 170
The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
Where at his desk and book he sits,
Puzzling aloft [26] his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in common
With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN, 175
Cowering beside her rifted cell,
As if intent on magic spell;-
Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather,
Still sit upon Helm-crag together!

The ASTROLOGER was not unseen 180
By solitary Benjamin;
But total darkness came anon,
And he and every thing was gone:
And suddenly a ruffling breeze,
(That would have rocked the sounding trees 185
Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
Swept through the Hollow long and bare: [27]
The rain rushed down--the road was battered,
As with the force of billows shattered;
The horses are dismayed, nor know 190
Whether they should stand or go;
And Benjamin is groping near them,
Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.
He is astounded,--wonder not,--
With such a charge in such a spot; 195
Astounded in the mountain gap
With thunder-peals, clap after clap,
Close-treading on the silent flashes--
And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes [28]
Among the rocks; with weight of rain, 200
And sullen [29] motions long and slow,
That to a dreary distance go--
Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,
A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.

Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, 205
And oftentimes compelled to halt,
The horses cautiously pursue
Their way, without mishap or fault;
And now have reached that pile of stones,
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; 210
He who had once supreme command,
Last king of rocky Cumberland;
His bones, and those of all his Power,
Slain here in a disastrous hour!

When, passing through this narrow strait, 215
Stony, and dark, and desolate,
Benjamin can faintly hear
A voice that comes from some one near,
A female voice:--"Whoe'er you be,
Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me! " 220
And, less in pity than in wonder,
Amid the darkness and the thunder,
The Waggoner, with prompt command,
Summons his horses to a stand.

While, with increasing agitation, 225
The Woman urged her supplication,
In rueful words, with sobs between--
The voice of tears that fell unseen; [30]
There came a flash--a startling glare,
And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 230
'Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
And Benjamin, without a question,
Taking her for some way-worn rover, [31]
Said, "Mount, and get you under cover! "
Another voice, in tone as hoarse 235
As a swoln brook with rugged course,
Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast?
I've had a glimpse of you--'avast! '
Or, since it suits you to be civil,
Take her at once--for good and evil! " 240

"It is my Husband," softly said
The Woman, as if half afraid:
By this time she was snug within,
Through help of honest Benjamin;
She and her Babe, which to her breast 245
With thankfulness the Mother pressed;
And now the same strong voice more near
Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer?
Rough doings these! as God's my judge,
The sky owes somebody a grudge! 250
We've had in half an hour or less
A twelvemonth's terror [32] and distress! "

Then Benjamin entreats the Man
Would mount, too, quickly as he can:
The Sailor--Sailor now no more, 255
But such he had been heretofore--
To courteous Benjamin replied,
"Go you your way, and mind not me;
For I must have, whate'er betide,
My Ass and fifty things beside,--260
Go, and I'll follow speedily! "

The Waggon moves--and with its load
Descends along the sloping road;
And the rough Sailor instantly
Turns to a little tent hard by: [33] 265
For when, at closing-in of day,
The family had come that way,
Green pasture and the soft warm air
Tempted [34] them to settle there. --
Green is the grass for beast to graze, 270
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

The Sailor gathers up his bed,
Takes down the canvass overhead;
And, after farewell to the place,
A parting word--though not of grace, 275
Pursues, with Ass and all his store,
The way the Waggon went before.



CANTO SECOND


If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 280
A little pair that hang in air,
Been mistress also of a clock,
(And one, too, not in crazy plight)
Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
Under the brow of old Helvellyn--285
Its bead-roll of midnight,
Then, when the Hero of my tale
Was passing by, and, down the vale
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween
As if a storm had never been) 290
Proceeding with a mind at ease;
While the old Familiar of the seas [35]
Intent to use his utmost haste,
Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,
And gives another lusty cheer; 295
For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
A welcome greeting he can hear;--
It is a fiddle in its glee
Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!

Thence the sound--the light is there--300
As Benjamin is now aware,
Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
Had almost reached the festive door,
When, startled by the Sailor's roar, [36]
He hears a sound and sees the light, 305
And in a moment calls to mind
That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT! [F]

Although before in no dejection,
At this insidious recollection
His heart with sudden joy is filled,--310
His ears are by the music thrilled,
His eyes take pleasure in the road
Glittering before him bright and broad;
And Benjamin is wet and cold,
And there are reasons manifold 315
That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning,
Look fairly like a lawful earning.

Nor has thought time to come and go,
To vibrate between yes and no;
For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance 320
That blew us hither! --let him dance,
Who can or will! --my honest soul,
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl! " [37]
He draws him to the door--"Come in,
Come, come," cries he to Benjamin! 325
And Benjamin--ah, woe is me!
Gave the word--the horses heard
And halted, though reluctantly.

"Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,
Feasting at the CHERRY TREE! " 330
This was the outside proclamation,
This was the inside salutation;
What bustling--jostling--high and low!
A universal overflow!
What tankards foaming from the tap! 335
What store of cakes in every lap!
What thumping--stumping--overhead!
The thunder had not been more busy:
With such a stir you would have said,
This little place may well be dizzy! 340
'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour--
'Tis what can be most prompt and eager;
As if it heard the fiddle's call,
The pewter clatters on the wall;
The very bacon shows its feeling, 345
Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
What greater good can heart desire?
'Twere worth a wise man's while to try
The utmost anger of the sky: 350
To _seek_ for thoughts of a gloomy cast,
If such the bright amends at last. [38]
Now should you say [39] I judge amiss,
The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
For soon of all [40] the happy there, 355
Our Travellers are the happiest pair;
All care with Benjamin is gone--
A Caesar past the Rubicon!
He thinks not of his long, long strife;--
The Sailor, Man by nature gay, 360
Hath no resolves to throw away; [41]
And he hath now forgot his Wife,
Hath quite forgotten her--or may be
Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
Within that warm and peaceful berth, [42] 365
Under cover,
Terror over,
Sleeping by her sleeping Baby.

With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
The gladdest of the gladsome band, 370
Amid their own delight and fun, [43]
They hear--when every dance is done,
When every whirling bout is o'er--[44]
The fiddle's _squeak_ [G]--that call to bliss,
Ever followed by a kiss; 375
They envy not the happy lot,
But enjoy their own the more!

While thus our jocund Travellers fare,
Up springs the Sailor from his chair--
Limps (for I might have told before 380
That he was lame) across the floor--
Is gone--returns--and with a prize;
With what? --a Ship of lusty size;
A gallant stately Man-of-war,
Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. 385
Surprise to all, but most surprise
To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes,
Not knowing that he had befriended
A Man so gloriously attended!