True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, | |
A ferlie he spied wi’ his ee, | |
And there he saw a lady bright, | |
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. | |
5 | Her shirt was o the grass-green silk, |
Her mantle o the velvet fyne, | |
At ilka tett of her horse’s mane | |
Hang fifty siller bells and nine. | |
True Thomas, he pulld aff his cap, | |
10 | And louted low down to his knee: |
‘All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven! | |
For thy peer on earth I never did see.’ | |
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said, | |
‘That name does not belang to me: | |
15 | I am but the queen of fair Elfland, |
That am hither come to visit thee. | |
‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said, | |
‘Harp and carp along wi me, | |
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, | |
20 | Sure of your bodie I will be.’ |
‘Betide me weal, betide me woe, | |
That weird shall never daunton me;’ | |
Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, | |
All underneath the Eildon Tree. | |
25 | ‘Now, ye maun go wi me,’ she said, |
‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi me, | |
And ye maun serve me seven years, | |
Thro weal or woe, as may chance to be.’ | |
She mounted on her milk-white steed, | |
30 | She’s taen True Thomas up behind, |
And aye wheneer her bridle rung, | |
The steed flew swifter than the wind. | |
O they rade on, and farther on – | |
The steed gaed swifter than the wind – | |
35 | Untill they reached a desart wide, |
And living land was left behind. | |
‘Light down, light down, now, True Thomas, | |
And lean your head upon my knee; | |
Abide and rest a little space, | |
40 | And I will shew you ferlies three. |
‘O see ye not yon narrow road, | |
So thick beset with thorns and briers? | |
That is the path of righteousness, | |
Tho after it but few enquires. | |
45 | ‘And see not ye that braid braid road, |
That lies across that lily leven? | |
That is the path of wickedness, | |
Tho some call it the road to heaven. | |
‘And see not ye that bonny road, | |
50 | That winds about the fernie brae? |
That is the road to fair Elfland, | |
Where thou and I this night maun gae. | |
‘But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, | |
Whatever ye may hear or see, | |
55 | For, if you speak word in Elflyn land, |
Ye’ll neer get back to your ain countrie.’ | |
O they rade on, and farther on, | |
And they waded thro rivers aboon the knee, | |
And they saw neither sun nor moon, | |
60 | But they heard the roaring of the sea. |
It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, | |
And they waded thro red blude to the knee; | |
For a’ the blude that’s shed on earth | |
Rins thro the springs o that countrie. | |
65 | Syne they came on to a garden green, |
And she pu’d an apple frae a tree: | |
‘Take this for thy wages, True Thomas, | |
It will give thee the tongue that can never lie.’ | |
‘My tongue is mine ain,’ True Thomas said; | |
70 | ‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! |
I neither dought to buy nor sell, | |
At fair or tryst where I may be. | |
‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer, | |
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:’ | |
75 | ‘Now hold thy peace,’ the lady said, |
‘For as I say, so must it be.’ | |
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, | |
And a pair of shoes of velvet green, | |
And till seven years were gane and past | |
80 | True Thomas on earth was never seen. |
O where ha’ you been, Lord Randal my son? | |
And where ha’ you been, my handsome young man? | |
I ha’ been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down. |
An’ wha met ye there, Lord Randal my son? | |
An’ wha met you there, my handsome young man? | |
O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ an’ fain wad lie down. |
And what did she give you, Lord Randal my son? | |
And what did she give you, my handsome young man? | |
Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down. |
And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal my son? | |
And wha gat your leavins, my handsom young man? | |
My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down. |
And what becam of them, Lord Randal my son? | |
And what becam of them, my handsome young man? | |
They stretched their legs out an’ died; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down. |
O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal my son, | |
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man. | |
O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down. |
What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal my son? | |
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man? | |
Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down. |
What d’ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal my son? | |
What d’ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man? | |
My gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon, | |
For I’m sick at the heart an’ I fain wad lie down. |
What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal my son? | |
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man? | |
My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down. |
What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son? | |
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man? | |
I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon, | |
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down. |
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, | |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
5 | When thou from hence away art past, |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last; | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, | |
10 | – Every nighte and alle, |
Sit thee down and put them on; | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane | |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
15 | The whinnes sail prick thee to the bare bane; |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass, | |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last; | |
20 | And Christe receive thy saule. |
From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass, | |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last; | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
25 | If ever thou gavest meat or drink, |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
The fire sail never make thee shrink; | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane, | |
30 | – Every nighte and alle, |
The fire will burn theee to the bare bane; | |
And Christe receive thy saule. | |
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, | |
– Every nighte and alle, | |
35 | Fire and fleet and candle-lighte, |
And Christe receive thy saule. |
As I was walking all alane, | |
I heard twa corbies making a mane; | |
The tane unto the t’other say, | |
‘Where sail we gang and dine to-day?’ | |
5 | ‘In behint yon auld fail dyke, |
I wot there lies a new slain knight; | |
And naebody kens that he lies there, | |
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. | |
‘His hound is to the hunting gane, | |
10 | His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, |
His lady’s ta’en another mate, | |
So we may mak our dinner sweet. | |
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane, | |
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een; | |
15 | Wi ae lock o his gowden hair |
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare. | |
‘Mony a one for him makes mane, | |
But nane sail ken where he is gane; | |
Oer his white banes, when they are bare, | |
20 | The wind sail blaw for evermair.’ |
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To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall | |
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, | |
As if he grew there, house and all, | |
Together. |
Within that house secure he hides | |
When danger imminent betides | |
Of storm, or other harm besides | |
Of Weather. |
Give but his horns the slightest touch, | |
His self-collecting pow’r is such, | |
He shrinks into his house with much | |
Displeasure. |
Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone, | |
Except himself has chatells none, | |
Well satisfied to be his own | |
whole treasure. |
Thus hermit-like his life he leads, | |
Nor partner of his banquet needs, | |
And if he meet one, only feeds | |
The faster. |
Who seeks him, must be worse than blind, | |
(He and his house are so combined), | |
If, finding it, he fail to find | |
Its master. |
Obscurest night involved the sky, | |
Th’ Atlantic billows roar’d, | |
When such a destin’d wretch as I | |
Wash’d headlong from on board | |
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, | |
His floating home for ever left. |
No braver Chief could Albion boast | |
Than He with whom he went, | |
Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast | |
With warmer wishes sent, | |
He loved them both, but both in vain, | |
Nor Him beheld, nor Her again. |
Not long beneath the whelming brine | |
Expert to swim, he lay, | |
Nor soon he felt his strength decline | |
Or courage die away; | |
But waged with Death a lasting strife | |
Supported by despair of life. |
He shouted, nor his friends had fail’d | |
To check the vessels’ course, | |
But so the furious blast prevail’d | |
That, pitiless perforce, | |
They left their outcast mate behind, | |
And scudded still before the wind. |
Some succour yet they could afford, | |
And, such as storms allow, | |
The cask, the coop, the floated cord | |
Delay’d not to bestow; | |
But He, they knew, nor ship nor shore, | |
Whate’er they gave, should visit more. |
Nor, cruel as it seem’d, could He | |
Their haste, himself, condemn, | |
Aware that flight in such a sea | |
Alone could rescue them; | |
Yet bitter felt it still to die | |
Deserted, and his friends so nigh. |
He long survives who lives an hour | |
In ocean, self-upheld, | |
And so long he with unspent pow’r | |
His destiny repell’d, | |
And ever, as the minutes flew, | |
Entreated help, or cried, Adieu! |
At length, his transient respite past, | |
His comrades, who before | |
Had heard his voice in ev’ry blast, | |
Could catch the sound no more; | |
For then, by toil subdued, he drank | |
The stifling wave, and then he sank. |
No poet wept him, but the page | |
Of narrative sincere | |
That tells his name, his worth, his age, | |
Is wet with Anson’s tear, | |
And tears by bards or heroes shed | |
Alike immortalize the Dead. |
I, therefore, purpose not or dream, | |
Descanting on his fate, | |
To give the melancholy theme | |
A more enduring date, | |
But Mis’ry still delights to trace | |
Its semblance in another’s case. |
No voice divine the storm allay’d, | |
No light propitious shone, | |
When, snatch’d from all effectual aid, | |
We perish’d, each, alone; | |
But I, beneath a rougher sea, | |
And whelm’d in deeper gulphs than he. |
And did those feet in ancient time. | |
Walk upon Englands mountains green: | |
And was the holy Lamb of God, | |
On Englands pleasant pastures seen! |
And did the Countenance Divine, | |
Shine forth upon our clouded hills? | |
And was Jerusalem builded here, | |
Among these dark Satanic Mills? |
Bring me my Bow of burning gold: | |
Bring me my Arrows of desire: | |
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! | |
Bring me my Chariot of fire! |
I will not cease from Mental Fight, | |
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: | |
Till we have built Jerusalem, | |
In Englands green & pleasant Land. |
Mock on Mock on Voltaire Rousseau | |
Mock on Mock on tis all in vain | |
You throw the sand against the wind | |
And the wind blows it back again |
And every sand becomes a Gem | |
Reflected in the beams divine | |
Blown back they blind the mocking Eye | |
But still in Israels paths they shine |
The Atoms of Democritus | |
And Newtons Particles of light | |
Are sands upon the Red sea shore | |
Where Israels tents do shine so bright |
The Maiden caught me in the Wild | |
Where I was dancing merrily | |
She put me into her Cabinet | |
And Lockd me up with a golden Key |
This Cabinet is formd of Gold | |
And Pearl & Crystal shining bright | |
And within it opens into a World | |
And a little lovely Moony Night |
Another England there I saw | |
Another London with its Tower | |
Another Thames & other Hills | |
And another pleasant Surrey Bower |
Another Maiden like herself | |
Translucent lovely shining clear | |
Threefold each in the other closd | |
O what a pleasant trembling fear |
O what a smile a threefold Smile | |
Filld me that like a flame I burnd | |
I bent to Kiss the lovely Maid | |
And found a Threefold Kiss returnd |
I strove to sieze the inmost Form | |
With ardor fierce & hands of flame | |
But burst the Crystal Cabinet | |
And like a Weeping Babe became |
A weeping Babe upon the wild | |
And Weeping Woman pale reclind | |
And in the outward air again | |
I filld with woes the passing Wind |
To see a World in a Grain of Sand | |
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower | |
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand | |
And Eternity in an hour | |
A Robin Red breast in a Cage | |
Puts all Heaven in a Rage | |
A dove house filld with doves & Pigeons | |
Shudders Hell thro all its regions | |
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate | |
Predicts the ruin of the State | |
A Horse misusd upon the Road | |
Calls to Heaven for Human blood | |
Each outcry of the hunted Hare | |
A fibre from the Brain does tear | |
A Skylark wounded in the wing | |
A Cherubim does cease to sing | |
The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight | |
Does the Rising Sun affright | |
Every Wolfs & Lions howl | |
Raises from Hell a Human Soul | |
The wild deer wandring here & there | |
Keeps the Human Soul from Care | |
The Lamb misusd breeds Public strife | |
And yet forgives the Butchers Knife | |
The Bat that flits at close of Eve | |
Has left the Brain that wont Believe | |
The Owl that calls upon the Night | |
Speaks the Unbelievers fright | |
He who shall hurt the little Wren | |
Shall never be belovd by Men | |
He who the Ox to wrath has movd | |
Shall never be by Woman lovd | |
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly | |
Shall feel the Spiders enmity | |
He who torments the Chafers sprite | |
Weaves a Bower in endless Night | |
The Catterpiller on the Leaf | |
Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief | |
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly | |
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh | |
He who shall train the Horse to War | |
Shall never pass the Polar Bar | |
The Beggers Dog & Widows Cat | |
Feed them & thou wilt grow fat | |
The Gnat that sings his Summers song | |
Poison gets from Slanders tongue | |
The poison of the Snake & Newt | |
Is the sweat of Envys Foot | |
The Poison of the Honey Bee | |
Is the Artists Jealousy | |
The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags | |
Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags | |
A truth thats told with bad intent | |
Beats all the Lies you can invent |
(1863)
It’s Lamkin was a mason good | |
As ever built wi stane; | |
He built Lord Wearie’s castle, | |
But payment got he nane. | |
5 | ‘O pay me, Lord Wearie, |
Come, pay me my fee:’ | |
‘I canna pay you, Lamkin, | |
For I maun gang oer the sea.’ | |
‘O pay me now, Lord Wearie, | |
10 | Come, pay me out o hand:’ |
‘I canna pay you, Lamkin, | |
Unless I sell my land.’ | |
‘O gin ye winna pay me, | |
I here sall mak a vow, | |
15 | Before that ye come hame again, |
Ye sail hae cause to rue.’ | |
Lord Wearie got a bonny ship, | |
To sail the saut sea faem; | |
Bade his lady weel the castle keep, | |
20 | Ay till he should come hame. |
But the nourice was a fause limmer | |
As eer hung on a tree; | |
She laid a plot wi Lamkin, | |
Whan her lord was oer the sea. | |
25 | She laid a plot wi Lamkin, |
When the servants were awa, | |
Loot him in at a little shot-window, | |
And brought him to the ha. | |
‘O whare’s a’ the men o this house, | |
30 | That ca me Lamkin?’ |
‘They’re at the barn-well thrashing; | |
’T will be lang ere they come in.’ | |
‘And whare’s the women o this house, | |
That ca me Lamkin?’ | |
35 | ‘They’re at the far well washing; |
’T will be lang ere they come in.’ | |
‘And whare’s the bairns o this house, | |
That ca me Lamkin?’ | |
‘They’re at the school reading; | |
40 | ’T will be night or they come hame.’ |
‘O whare’s the lady o this house, | |
That ca’s me Lamkin?’ | |
‘She’s up in her bower sewing, | |
But we soon can bring her down.’ | |
45 | Then Lamkin’s tane a sharp knife, |
That hang down by his gaire, | |
And he has gien the bonny babe | |
A deep wound and a sair. | |
Then Lamkin he rocked, | |
50 | And the fause nourice sang, |
Till frae ilkae bore o the cradle | |
The red blood out sprang. | |
Then out it spak the lady, | |
As she stood on the stair: | |
55 | ‘What ails my bairn, nourice, |
That he’s greeting sae sair? | |
‘O still my bairn, nourice, | |
O still him wi the pap!’ | |
‘He winna still, lady, | |
60 | For this nor for that.’ |
‘O still my bairn, nourice, | |
O still him wi the wand!’ | |
‘He winna still, lady, | |
For a’ his father’s land.’ | |
65 | ‘O still my bairn, nourice, |
O still him wi the bell!’ | |
‘He winna still, lady, | |
Till ye come down yoursel.’ | |
O the firsten step she steppit, | |
70 | She steppit on a stane; |
But the neisten step she steppit, | |
She met him Lamkin. | |
‘O mercy, mercy, Lamkin, | |
Hae mercy upon me! | |
75 | Though you’ve taen my young son’s life, |
Ye may let mysel be.’ | |
‘O sail I kill her, nourice, | |
Or sail I lat her be?’ | |
‘O kill her, kill her, Lamkin, | |
80 | For she neer was good to me.’ |
‘O scour the bason, nourice, | |
And mak it fair and clean, | |
For to keep this lady’s heart’s blood, | |
For she’s come o noble kin.’ | |
85 | ‘There need nae bason, Lamkin, |
Lat it run through the floor; | |
What better is the heart’s blood | |
O the rich than o the poor?’ | |
But ere three months were at an end, | |
90 | Lord Wearie came again; |
But dowie, dowie was his heart | |
When first he came hame. | |
‘O wha’s blood is this,’ he says, | |
‘That lies in the chamer?’ | |
95 | ‘It is your lady’s heart’s blood; |
’T is as clear as the lamer.’ | |
‘And wha’s blood is this,’ he says, | |
‘That lies in my ha?’ | |
‘It is your young son’s heart’s blood; | |
100 | ’T is the clearest ava.’ |
O sweetly sang the black-bird | |
That sat upon the tree; | |
But sairer grat Lamkin, | |
When he was condemned to die. | |
105 | And bonny sang the mavis, |
Out o the thorny brake; | |
But sairer grat the nourice, | |
When she was tied to the stake. |
Sept. 3, 1802 | |
Earth has not any thing to shew more fair: | |
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by | |
A sight so touching in its majesty: | |
This City now doth like a garment wear | |
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, | |
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie | |
Open unto the fields, and to the sky; | |
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. | |
Never did sun more beautifully steep | |
In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; | |
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! | |
The river glideth at his own sweet will: | |
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; | |
And all that mighty heart is lying still! |
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! | |
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: | |
I saw thee every day; and all the while | |
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. |
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! | |
So like, so very like, was day to day! | |
Whene’er I looked, thy Image still was there; | |
It trembled, but it never passed away. |
How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; | |
No mood, which season takes away, or brings: | |
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep | |
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. |
Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter’s hand, | |
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, | |
The light that never was, on sea or land, | |
The consecration, and the Poet’s dream; |
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile | |
Amid a world how different from this! | |
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; | |
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. |
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine | |
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; – | |
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine | |
The very sweetest had to thee been given. |
A Picture had it been of lasting ease, | |
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; | |
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, | |
Or merely silent Nature’s breathing life. |
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, | |
Such Picture would I at that time have made: | |
And seen the soul of truth in every part, | |
A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. |
So once it would have been, – ’tis so no more; | |
I have submitted to a new control: | |
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; | |
A deep distress hath humanized my Soul. |
Not for a moment could I now behold | |
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: | |
The feeling of my loss will ne’er be old; | |
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. |
Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been the Friend, | |
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, | |
This work of thine I blame not, but commend; | |
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. |
O ’tis a passionate Work! – yet wise and well, | |
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; | |
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, | |
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! |
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, | |
I love to see the look with which it braves, | |
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, | |
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. |
Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, | |
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! | |
Such happiness, wherever it be known, | |
Is to be pitied; for ’tis surely blind. |
But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, | |
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! | |
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. – | |
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. |
There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, | |
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; | |
And, the first moment that the sun may shine, | |
Bright as the sun himself, ’tis out again! |
When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm, | |
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, | |
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, | |
In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest. |
But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed, | |
And recognized it, though an altered Form, | |
Now standing forth an offering to the Blast, | |
And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm. |
I stopped, and said with inly muttered voice, | |
‘It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: | |
This neither is its courage nor its choice, | |
But its necessity in being old. |
‘The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew; | |
It cannot help itself in its decay; | |
Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue.’ | |
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. |
To be a Prodigal’s Favorite – then, worse truth, | |
A Miser’s Pensioner – behold our lot! | |
O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth | |
Age might but take the things Youth needed not! |
Paulò majora canamus | |
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, | |
The earth, and every common sight, | |
To me did seem | |
Apparelled in celestial light, | |
The glory and the freshness of a dream. | |
It is not now as it has been of yore; – | |
Turn wheresoe’er I may, | |
By night or day, | |
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. |
The Rainbow comes and goes, | |
And lovely is the Rose, | |
The Moon doth with delight | |
Look round her when the heavens are bare; | |
Waters on a starry night | |
Are beautiful and fair; | |
The sunshine is a glorious birth; | |
But yet I know, where’er I go, | |
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. |
Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, | |
And while the young Lambs bound | |
As to the tabor’s sound, | |
To me alone there came a thought of grief: | |
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, | |
And I again am strong. | |
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, | |
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; | |
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, | |
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep, | |
And all the earth is gay, | |
Land and sea | |
Give themselves up to jollity, | |
And with the heart of May | |
Doth every Beast keep holiday, | |
Thou Child of Joy, | |
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd Boy! |
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call | |
Ye to each other make; I see | |
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; | |
My heart is at your festival, | |
My head hath its coronal, | |
The fullness of your bliss, I feel – I feel it all. | |
Oh evil day! if I were sullen | |
While the Earth herself is adorning, | |
This sweet May-morning, | |
And the Children are pulling, | |
On every side, | |
In a thousand vallies far and wide, | |
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, | |
And the Babe leaps up on his mother’s arm: – | |
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! | |
– But there’s a Tree, of many one, | |
A single Field which I have looked upon, | |
Both of them speak of something that is gone: | |
The Pansy at my feet | |
Doth the same tale repeat: | |
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? | |
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? |
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: | |
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, | |
Hath had elsewhere its setting, | |
And cometh from afar: | |
Not in entire forgetfulness, | |
And not in utter nakedness, | |
But trailing clouds of glory do we come | |
From God, who is our home: | |
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! | |
Shades of the prison-house begin to close | |
Upon the growing Boy, | |
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, | |
He sees it in his joy; | |
The Youth, who daily farther from the East | |
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest, | |
And by the vision splendid | |
Is on his way attended; | |
At length the Man perceives it die away, | |
And fade into the light of common day. |
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; | |
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, | |
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind, | |
And no unworthy aim, | |
The homely Nurse doth all she can | |
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, | |
Forget the glories he hath known, | |
And that imperial palace whence he came. |
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, | |
A four year’s Darling of a pigmy size! | |
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies, | |
Fretted by sallies of his Mother’s kisses, | |
With light upon him from his Father’s eyes! | |
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, | |
Some fragment from his dream of human life, | |
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; | |
A wedding or a festival, | |
A mourning or a funeral; | |
And this hath now his heart, | |
And unto this he frames his song: | |
Then will he fit his tongue | |
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; | |
But it will not be long | |
Ere this be thrown aside, | |
And with new joy and pride | |
The little Actor cons another part, | |
Filling from time to time his ‘humorous stage’ | |
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, | |
That Life brings with her in her Equipage; | |
As if his whole vocation | |
Were endless imitation. |
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie | |
Thy Soul’s immensity; | |
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep | |
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, | |
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep, | |
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, – | |
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! | |
On whom those truths do rest, | |
Which we are toiling all our lives to find; |
Thou, over whom thy Immortality | |
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave, | |
A Presence which is not to be put by; | |
To whom the grave | |
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight | |
Of day or the warm light, | |
A place of thought where we in waiting lie; | |
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might | |
Of untamed pleasures, on thy Being’s height, | |
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke | |
The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, | |
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? | |
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, | |
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, | |
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! |
O joy! that in our embers | |
Is something that doth live, | |
That nature yet remembers | |
What was so fugitive! | |
The thought of our past years in me doth breed | |
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed | |
For that which is most worthy to be blest; | |
Delight and liberty, the simple creed | |
Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, | |
With new-born hope for ever in his breast: – | |
Not for these I raise | |
The song of thanks and praise; | |
But for those obstinate questionings | |
Of sense and outward things, | |
Fallings from us, vanishings; | |
Blank misgivings of a Creature | |
Moving about in worlds not realized, | |
High instincts, before which our mortal Nature | |
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprized: | |
But for those first affections, | |
Those shadowy recollections, | |
Which, be they what they may, | |
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, | |
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; | |
Uphold us, cherish us, and make | |
Our noisy years seem moments in the being | |
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, |
To perish never; | |
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, | |
Nor Man nor Boy, | |
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, | |
Can utterly abolish or destroy! | |
Hence, in a season of calm weather, | |
Though inland far we be, | |
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea | |
Which brought us hither, | |
Can in a moment travel thither, | |
And see the Children sport upon the shore, | |
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. |
Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! | |
And let the young Lambs bound | |
As to the tabor’s sound! | |
We in thought will join your throng, | |
Ye that pipe and ye that play, | |
Ye that through your hearts to day | |
Feel the gladness of the May! | |
What though the radiance which was once so bright | |
Be now for ever taken from my sight, | |
Though nothing can bring back the hour | |
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; | |
We will grieve not, rather find | |
Strength in what remains behind, | |
In the primal sympathy | |
Which having been must ever be, | |
In the soothing thoughts that spring | |
Out of human suffering, | |
In the faith that looks through death, | |
In years that bring the philosophic mind. |
And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, | |
Think not of any severing of our loves! | |
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; | |
I only have relinquished one delight | |
To live beneath your more habitual sway. | |
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, | |
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; | |
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day | |
Is lovely yet; | |
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun | |
Do take a sober colouring from an eye | |
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality; | |
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. | |
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, | |
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, | |
To me the meanest flower that blows can give | |
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. |