Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems | Page 7

water, on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered
simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man--he loved this little boy,

The boy loved him--and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could
write with the pen: and from that time,
Lived chiefly at the Convent
or the Castle.
So he became a very learned youth.
But Oh! poor
wretch!--he read, and read, and read,
'Till his brain turned--and ere
his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And
though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a
holy place--
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late
Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north
side of the Chapel
They stood together, chained in deep discourse,

The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall
tottered, and had well-nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was
sorely frightened;
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of
all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the
youth was seized

And cast into that hole. My husband's father

Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was
working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,

Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on
lake or wild savannah,
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And

wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and
now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that
cunning entrance I described:
And the young man escaped.
MARIA.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His
rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.--
And what became of him?
FOSTER-MOTHER.
He went on ship-board
With those bold voyagers, who made
discovery
Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise,
and when he returned to Spain,
He told Leoni, that the poor mad
youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his
dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight

Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but
'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.
LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH
STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A
DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A
BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.
--Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Far from all human
dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
Yet, if the wind
breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull
thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
--Who he was
That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First
covered o'er, and taught this aged tree,
Now wild, to bend its arms in
circling shade,
I well remember.--He was one who own'd
No
common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd,
And big with lofty views,
he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of

dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all
enemies prepared,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
At
once, with rash disdain he turned away,
And with the food of pride
sustained his soul
In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had
charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a
straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
And
on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly
sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
A
morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own
unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the
more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till
it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty
still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
Would he forget those beings, to
whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world,
and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he
would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he
must never feel: and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy
feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this
seat his only monument.
If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
Of young imagination have
kept pure,
Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he, who feels
contempt
For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never
used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye
Is
ever on himself, doth look on one,
The least of nature's works, one
who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds

Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!

Instructed that true knowledge
leads to love,
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent
hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

In lowliness of heart.
THE NIGHTINGALE;

A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no
long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we
will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the