Chapter 3

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, Where looks inhuman dwelt on 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 pauniered 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.

[2] 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.

GOODY BLAKE, AND HARRY GILL, A TRUE STORY.

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? What is’t that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still. Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July, “Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, ’Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover, His voice was like the voice of three. Auld Goody Blake was old and poor, Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad; And any man who pass’d her door, Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling, And then her three hours’ work at night! Alas! ’twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. --This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire, Her hut was on a cold hill-side, And in that country coals are dear, For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage, But she, poor woman, dwelt alone. ’Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the _canty_ dame Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh! then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, ’Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead; Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed, And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! when e’er in winter The winds at night had made a rout, And scatter’d many a lusty splinter, And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile before-hand, wood or stick, Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring, Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake, And vow’d that she should be detected, And he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he’d go, And to the fields his road would take, And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble-land. --He hears a noise--he’s all awake-- Again?--on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps--’Tis Goody Blake, She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull, He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The bye-road back again to take, He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!” Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d To God that is the judge of all.

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm-- “God! who art never out of hearing, “O may he never more be warm!” The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray, Young Harry heard what she had said, And icy-cold he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three.

’Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinn’d; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry’s flesh it fell away; And all who see him say ’tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again.

No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, “Poor Harry Gill is very cold.” A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

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! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book; for this one day We’ll give to idleness.

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 little 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 hounds 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’re 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 endeavour’d.

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.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART 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, so fair and slim, Hung down his head, nor made reply; And five times did I say to him, “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.

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!”

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 THORN.

I.

There is a thorn; it looks so old, In truth you’d find it hard to say, How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two-years’ child, It stands erect this aged thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.

II.

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor thorn they clasp it round So close, you’d say that they were bent With plain and manifest intent, To drag it to the ground; And all had joined in one endeavour To bury this poor thorn for ever.

III.