Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) Part 5

Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died When sad distress reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal.

'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain.

But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain.

My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view: In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew; And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

There foul neglect for months and months we bore, Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred.

Green fields before us and our native sh.o.r.e, By fever, from polluted air incurred, Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard.

Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, That happier days we never more must view: The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew,

But from delay the summer calms were past.

On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains--high before the howling blaft.

We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue.

We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew.

Oh! dreadful price of being to resign All that is dear _in_ being! better far In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, Better our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, Protract a curst existence, with the brood That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood.

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 s.h.i.+p I waked, as from a trance restored.

Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, In the calm suns.h.i.+ne 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 h.e.l.l 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 c.o.c.k 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 pa.s.sed 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 f.a.ggot 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 a.s.s, 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 fort.i.tude: 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 l.u.s.ty 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 pa.s.s'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 Dorsets.h.i.+re, 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.