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No more I know, I wish I did,

“ I cannot tell; but some will say
And I would tell it all to you,

She hanged her baby on the tree;
For what became of this poor child

Some say she drowned it in the pond,
There's none that ever knew:

Which is a little step beyond:
And if a child was born or no,

But all and each agree,
There's no one that could ever tell;

The little babe was buried there,
And if 'twas born alive or dead,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
There's no one knows, as I have said;
But some remember well,

I've heard, the moss is spotted red
That Martha Ray about this time

With drops of that poor infant's blood:
Would up the mountain often climb.

But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!
And all that winter, when at night

Some

if to the pond you go, The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

And fix on it a steady view,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,

The shadow of a babe you trace,
The church-yard path to seek:

A baby and a baby's face,
For many a time and oft were heard

And that it looks at you;
Cries coming from the mountain-head:

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
Some plainly living voices were;

The baby looks at you again.
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead :

And some had sworn on oath that she
I cannot think, whate'er they say,

Should be to public justice brought;

And for the little infant's bones
They had to do with Martha Ray.

With spades they would have sought.
But that she goes to this old thorn,

But then the beauteous hill of moss
The thorn which I've described to you,

Before their eyes began to stir!
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,

And for full fifty yards around,
I will be sworn is true.

The grass,-it shook upon the ground!
For one day with my telescope,

But all do still aver
To view the ocean wide and bright,

The little babe is buried there,
When to this country first I came,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:

I cannot tell how this may be:
A storm came on, and I could see

But plain it is, the thorn is bound

With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
No object higher than my knee.

To drag it to the ground;
'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,

And this I know, full many a time,
No screen, no fence could I discover,

When she was on the mountain high,
And then the wind ! in faith, it was

By day, and in the silent night,
A wind full ten times over.

When all the stars shone clear and bright,
I looked around, I thought I saw

That I have heard her cry,
A jutting crag,—and off I ran,

“ Oh misery! oh misery!
Head foremost, through the driving rain,

Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
The shelter of the crag to gain;
And, as I am a man,

HART-LEAP WELL.
Instead of jutting crag, I found

PART I,
A woman seated on the ground.

The knight had ridden down from Wensley moor
I did not speak- I saw her face;

With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
Her face !--it was enough for me;

He turned aside towards a vassal's door,
I turned about and heard her cry,

And“ Bring another horse!” he cried aloud,
" Oh misery! oh misery!"
And there she sits, until the moon

“ Another horse!" -That shout the vassal heard Through half the clear blue sky will go;

And saddled his best steed, a comely gray; And, when the little breezes make

Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
The waters of the pond to shake,

Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
As all the country know,
She shudders, and you hear her cry,

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ;

The horse and horseman are a happy pair; “ Oh misery! oh misery!"

But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
“ But what's the thorn ? and what's the pond ?

There is a doleful silence in the air.
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the creeping breeze that comes A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall,

That as they galloped made the echoes roar;
The little pond to stir?”

4 E

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The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head;

Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow:-Him did I accost,

And what this place might be I then inquired.

But horse and man are vanished, one and all; And, in the summer-time when days are long,
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

I will come hither with my paramour;

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,

We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain :
Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain,

My mansion with its arbour shall endure;

The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
The knight hallooed, he chid and cheered them on

And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eye-sight fail; and one by one, Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.

Soon did the knight perform what he had said,
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?

And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
-This chace it looks not like an earthly chace; Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

A cup of stone received the living well;

Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,

And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
Nor will I mention by what death he died;

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall But now the knight beholds him lying dead.

With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd,

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:

A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,

And thither, when the summer-days were long, But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Sir Walter led his wondering paramour;

And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;

Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;

The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. And his bones lie in his paternal vale.

But there is matter for a second rhyme,
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:

And I to this would add another tale.
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched

PART II.
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

The moving accident is not my trade: And now, too happy for repose or rest,

To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: (Never had living man such joyful lot!)

'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,

To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, And climbing up the hill-(it was at least

It chanced that I saw standing in a dell Nine roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found Three aspens

at three corners of a square; Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast

And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face and cried, “ Till now

What this imported I could ill divine:
Such sight was never seen by living eyes:

And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,

I saw three pillars standing in a line,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top.
I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a smali arbour, made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
A cunning artist will I have to frame
A bason for that fountain in the dell!
And they, who do make mention of the same
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well.
And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.

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Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,

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That

Mais For

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay. .

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The shepherd stopped, and that same story told

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.

That what we are, and have been, may be known; A jolly place,” said he, “ in times of old !

But, at the coming of the milder day, But something ails it now; the spot is cursed.

These monuments shall all be overgrown. You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood

One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide, Some say that they are beeches, others elms Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, These were the bower; and here a mansion stood, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride The finest palace of a hundred realms!

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."
The arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;

LINES,
But as to the great lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on

revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,

July 13, 1798.
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,

Five years have passed; five summers,with the length This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs Some say that here a murder has been done,

With a sweet inland murmur.-Once again And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, l've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun, Which on a wild secluded scene impress That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect What thoughts must through the creature's brain

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. have past!

The day is come when I again repose Even from the top-most stone, upon the steep,

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view Are but three bounds—and look, sir, at this last These plots of cottage ground, these orchard-tufts, -O master! it has been a cruel leap.

Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;

Among the woods and copses, nor disturb And in my simple mind we cannot tell

The wild green landscape. Once again I see What cause the Hart might have to love this place, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines And come and make his death-bed near the well. Of sportive wood run wild;. these pastoral farms

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,

Sent

up, in silence, from among the trees! Lulled by this fountain in the summer-tide; With some uncertain notice, as might seem, This water was perhaps the first he drank

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods; When he had wandered from his mother's side.

Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire

The hermit sits alone. In April here beneath the scented thorn

Though absent long, He heard the birds their morning carols sing;

These forms of beauty have not been to me And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

But oft, in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade;

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, The sun on drearier hollow never shone;

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; So will it be, as I have often said,

And passing even into my purer mind, Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone."

With tranquil restoration :-feelings too Gray-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken well;

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell;

On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered acts His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, The Being, that is in the clouds and air,

To them I may have owed another gift, That is in the green leaves among the groves,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves.

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world The pleasure-house is dust:-behind, before,

Is lightened :--that serene and blessed mood, This is no common waste, no common gloom;

In which the affections gently lead us on.. But Nature, in due course of time, once more

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

And even the motion of our human blood

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That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.

For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

Of eye and ear, both what they half create,
In body, and become a living soul:

And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
While with an eye made quiet by the power In nature and the language of the sense,
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
We see into the life of things.

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
If this

Of all my moral being.
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,

Nor perchance, In darkness, and amid the many shapes

If I were not thus taught, should I the more Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir

Suffer my genial spirits to decay: Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,

Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch Osylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods, The language of my former heart, and read How often has my spirit turned to thee! [thought, My former pleasures in the shooting lights

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while With many recognitions dim and faint,

May I behold in thee what I was once, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, The picture of the mind revives again:

Knowing that Nature never did betray While here I stand, not only with the sense

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts Through all the years of this our life, to lead That in this moment there is life and food

From joy to joy: for she can so inform For future years. And so I dare to hope, [first The mind that is within us, so impress Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when With quietness and beauty, and so feed I came among these hills; when like a roe

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all Wherever Nature led: more like a man

The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Flying from something that he dreads, than one Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then Our cheerful faith that all which we behold
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
And their glad animal movements all gone by,) Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint

And let the misty mountain winds be free
What then I was. The sounding cataract

To blow against thee: and, in after years,
Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Their colours and their forms, were then to me Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
An appetite: a feeling and a love,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
That had no need of a remoter charm,

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! theu, By thought supplied, or any interest

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
And all its aching joys are now no more,

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world

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And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance,
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleans
Of past existence, wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came,
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love, oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

V

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

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SONNETS.
THOUGH NARROW.

Though narrow be that Old Man's cares, and deer,

greater than he seems:

The poor Old Man

CONTINUED.

An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.

From evil speaking: rancour, never sought, =;* Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer; Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. The region of his inner spirit teems

Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I or With vital sounds and monitory gleams

Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous ca: Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.

And thus from day to day my little boat (thought: He the seven birds hath seen, that never part; Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. | Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds, Blessings be with them-and eternal praise, up. And counted them: and oftentimes will start Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares :

For overhead are sweeping Gabriel's Hounds, The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs 2e Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,

Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
PERSONAL TALK.
I am not one who much or oft delight

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, To season my fireside with personal talk,

Sept. 3, 1803. Of friends, who live within an easy walk,

Earth has not any thing to shew more fair: Or neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, A sight so touching in its majesty : Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, This city now doth like a garment wear These all wear out of me, like forms with chalk The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Better than such discourse doth silence long, Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

Long, barren silence, square with my desire; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Albert To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

Never did sun more beautifully steep In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; And listen to the flapping of the flame,

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 33 Or kettle, whispering its faint undersong.

The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!
2*, “Yet life," you say, “is life; we have seen and see,
** And with a living pleasure we describe ;
17 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

The world is too much with us; late and soon, The languid mind into activity.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee, Little we see in Nature that is ours; 1995 Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.” We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; Our daily world's true worldlings, rank not me! The winds that will be howling at all hours,

Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; es More justly balanced; partly at their feet,

For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; And part far from them :-sweetest melodies

It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be Are those which are by distance made more sweet; A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
He is a slave: the meanest we can meet!

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Wings have we,-and as far as we can go
We
may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OP
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low: [know,

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we

One of the mountains; each a mighty voice: Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;

Thou fought'st against him, but hast vainly striven; Matter wherein right voluble I am:

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be CONCLUDED.

That mountain floods should thunder as before, Nor can I not believe but that hereby

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore, Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

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CONTINUED.

SWITZERLAND.

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