Chapter 3

There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!-- Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 40

Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs--they care not for you, Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!

_TO THE DAISY_. The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume.

With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee!

Oft do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of similies, 10 Loose types of Things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising: And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing.

A Nun demure of lowly port, Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; 20 A Queen in crown of rubies drest, A Starveling in a scanty vest, Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next--and instantly The freak is over, The shape will vanish, and behold! A silver Shield with boss of gold, 30 That spreads itself, some Faery bold In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar;-- And then thou art a pretty Star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee! Yet, like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee! 40

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!

_TO THE SAME FLOWER_.

Bright Flower, whose home is every where! A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other Flower I see The forest thorough!

Is it that Man is soon deprest? A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10 Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind. A hope for times that are unkind And every season?

Thou wander'st the wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and willing; 20 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling.

_INCIDENT_, Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author.

On his morning rounds the Master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and Cattle eyes with care; And, for silence or for talk, He hath Comrades in his walk; Four Dogs, each pair of different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See, a Hare before him started! --Off they fly in earnest chace; 10 Every Dog is eager-hearted, All the four are in the race! And the Hare whom they pursue Hath an instinct what to do; Her hope is near: no turn she makes; But, like an arrow, to the River takes.

Deep the River was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble Hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost; 20 She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread, Breaks--and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!

Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW-- See them cleaving to the sport! Music has no heart to follow, Little Music, she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart. Her's is now another part: 30 A loving Creature she, and brave! And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say! And afflicting moans she fetches, As he breaks the ice away. For herself she hath no fears, Him alone she sees and hears, Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more. 40

_TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG_.

Lie here sequester'd:--be this little mound For ever thine, and be it holy ground! Lie here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath the covering of the common earth! It is not from unwillingness to praise, Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise; More thou deserv'st; but _this_ Man gives to Man, Brother to Brother, _this_ is all we can. Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year: 10 This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hadst liv'd, till every thing that chears In thee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away, And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees,-- saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 20 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, Found scarcely any where in like degree!

For love, that comes to all; the holy sense, Best gift of God, in thee was most intense; 30 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:-- Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from passion and from reason came, And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

_SONNET_.

ADMONITION, (Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.)

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! --The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky! But covet not th' Abode--oh! do not sigh, As many do, repining while they look, Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book This blissful leaf, with worst impiety. Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!

_SONNET_.

... "_gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name_."

Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and near The poor Old Man is greater than he seems: For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams; An ample sovereignty of eye and ear. Rich are his walks with supernatural chear; The region of his inner spirit teems With vital sounds, and monitory gleams Of high astonishment and pleasing fear. He the seven birds hath seen that never part, Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds, And counted them: and oftentimes will start-- For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS, Doom'd, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

_SONNET_.

A PROPHECY. Feb. 1807.

High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you! Thus in your Books the record shall be found, "A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound, ARMINIUS!--all the people quaked like dew Stirr'd by the breeze--they rose, a Nation, true, True to itself--the mighty Germany, She of the Danube and the Northern sea, She rose,--and off at once the yoke she threw. All power was given her in the dreadful trance-- Those new-born Kings she wither'd like a flame." --Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame To that Bavarian, who did first advance His banner in accursed league with France, First open Traitor to her sacred name!

_SONNET_, TO THOMAS CLARKSON, On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807.

Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb; How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee Is known,--by none, perhaps, so feelingly; But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime, Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime, Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat, Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, First roused thee.--O true yoke-fellow of Time With unabating effort, see, the palm Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn! The bloody Writing is for ever torn, And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man's calm, A great Man's happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!

* * * * *

Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn'd In which a Lady driv'n from France did dwell; The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn'd, In friendship she to me would often tell.

This Lady, dwelling upon English ground, Where she was childless, daily did repair To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found, For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

Once did I see her clasp the Child about, And take it to herself; and I, next day, 10 Wish'd in my native tongue to fashion out Such things as she unto this Child might say: And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess'd, My song the workings of her heart express'd.

"Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another, One moment let me be thy Mother! An Infant's face and looks are thine; And sure a Mother's heart is mine: Thy own dear Mother's far away, At labour in the harvest-field: 20 Thy little Sister is at play;-- What warmth, what comfort would it yield To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be One little hour a child to me!"

"Across the waters I am come, And I have left a Babe at home: A long, long way of land and sea! Come to me--I'm no enemy: I am the same who at thy side Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30 For thee, sweet Baby!--thou hast tried. Thou know'st, the pillow of my breast: Good, good art thou; alas! to me Far more than I can be to thee."

"Here little Darling dost thou lie; An Infant Thou, a Mother I! Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears; Mine art thou--spite of these my tears. Alas! before I left the spot, My Baby and its dwelling-place; 40 The Nurse said to me, 'Tears should not Be shed upon an Infant's face, It was unlucky'--no, no, no; No truth is in them who say so!"

"My own dear Little-one will sigh, Sweet Babe! and they will let him die. 'He pines,' they'll say, 'it is his doom, And you may see his hour is come.' Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles, Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50 Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles, And countenance like a summer's day, They would have hopes of him--and then I should behold his face again!"

"'Tis gone--forgotten--let me do My best--there was a smile or two, I can remember them, I see The smiles, worth all the world to me. Dear Baby! I must lay thee down; Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60 Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own; I cannot keep thee in my arms, For they confound me: as it is, I have forgot those smiles of his."

"Oh! how I love thee! we will stay Together here this one half day. My Sister's Child, who bears my name, From France across the Ocean came; She with her Mother cross'd the sea; The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70 My Darling, she is not to me What thou art! though I love her well: Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here; Never was any Child more dear!"

"--I cannot help it--ill intent I've none, my pretty Innocent! I weep--I know they do thee wrong, These tears--and my poor idle tongue. Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek How cold it is! but thou art good; 80 Thine eyes are on me--they would speak, I think, to help me if they could. Blessings upon that quiet face, My heart again is in its place!"

"While thou art mine, my little Love, This cannot be a sorrowful grove; Contentment, hope, and Mother's glee. I seem to find them all in thee: Here's grass to play with, here are flowers; I'll call thee by my Darling's name; 90 Thou hast, I think, a look of ours, Thy features seem to me the same; His little Sister thou shalt be; And, when once more my home I see, I'll tell him many tales of Thee."

_FORESIGHT_. Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.

That is work which I am rueing-- Do as Charles and I are doing! Strawberry-blossoms, one and all, We must spare them--here are many: Look at it--the Flower is small, Small and low, though fair as any: Do not touch it! summers two I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. 10 --Here are Daisies, take your fill; Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower: Of the lofty Daffodil Make your bed, and make your bower; Fill your lap, and fill your bosom; Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them-- Summer knows but little of them: Violets, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie; 20 Daisies will be daisies still; Daisies they must live and die: Fill your lap, and fill your bosom, Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

_A COMPLAINT_.

There is a change--and I am poor; Your Love hath been, nor long ago, A Fountain at my fond Heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count! Bless'd was I then all bliss above! Now, for this consecrated Fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? shall I dare to tell? A comfortless, and hidden WELL.

A Well of love--it may be deep-- I trust it is, and never dry: What matter? if the Waters sleep In silence and obscurity. --Such change, and at the very door Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

* * * * *

I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk, About Friends, who live within an easy walk, Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright, Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.

"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Are foster'd by the comment and the gibe." 20 Even be it so: yet still among your tribe, Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me! Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies More justly balanced; partly at their feet, And part far from them:--sweetest melodies Are those that are by distance made more sweet; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

Wings have we, and as far as we can go We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There do I find a never-failing store Of personal themes, and such as I love best; Matter wherein right voluble I am: Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40 The gentle Lady, married to the Moor; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

* * * * *

Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo! Giving to thee Sound for Sound.

Whence the Voice? from air or earth? This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well;

Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10 Like her ordinary cry, Like--but oh how different!

Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures?

Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? 20

Such within ourselves we hear Oft-times, ours though sent from far; Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, of God they are!

_TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND_, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The toiling many and the resting few;

Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, And industry of body and of mind; 10 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As Nature is; too pure to be refined.

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his River murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord? That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade! More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 20

If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; An _Heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:-- 30 High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

_SONG_, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE, Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate. And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.-- The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal Strain that hath been silent long.

From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower, The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower. Her thirty years of Winter past; The Red Rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming! 10 Both Roses flourish, Red and White. In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, And all old sorrows now are ended.-- Joy! joy to both! but most to her Who is the Flower of Lancaster! Behold her how She smiles to day On this great throng, this bright array! Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the Hall; 20 But, chiefly, from above the Board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Clifford to his own restored.

They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstood, Earth help'd him with the cry of blood: St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crown'd the right. Loud voice the Land hath utter'd forth, 30 We loudest in the faithful North: Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring, Our Streams proclaim a welcoming; Our Strong-abodes and Castles see The glory of their loyalty. How glad is Skipton at this hour Though she is but a lonely Tower! Silent, deserted of her best, Without an Inmate or a Guest, Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 40 We have them at the Feast of Brough'm. How glad Pendragon though the sleep Of years be on her!--She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem Beside her little humble Stream; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard; They both are happy at this hour, 50 Though each is but a lonely Tower:-- But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day distinguished without peer To see her Master and to cheer; Him, and his Lady Mother dear.

Oh! it was a time forlorn When the Fatherless was born-- Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her Infant die! 60 Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the Mother and the Child. Who will take them from the light? --Yonder is a Man in sight-- Yonder is a House--but where? No, they must not enter there. To the Caves, and to the Brooks, To the Clouds of Heaven she looks; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. 70 Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child!

Now Who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd Boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be He who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed 80 For shelter, and a poor Man's bread? God loves the Child; and God hath will'd That those dear words should be fulfill'd, The Lady's words, when forc'd away, The last she to her Babe did say, "My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, For lowly Shepherd's life is best!"