Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems | Page 7

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 stream beneath,?But hear no murmuring: it flows silently?O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,?A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,?Yet let us think upon the vernal showers?That gladden the green earth, and we shall find?A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.?And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,?"Most musical, most melancholy"[1] Bird!?A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!?In nature there is nothing melancholy.?--But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,?Or slow distemper or neglected love,?(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself?And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale?Of his own sorrows) he and such as he?First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain;?And many a poet echoes the conceit,?Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme?When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs?Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell?By sun or moonlight, to the influxes?Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements?Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song?And of his fame forgetful! so his fame?Should share in nature's immortality,?A venerable thing! and so his song?Should make all nature lovelier, and itself?Be lov'd, like nature!--But 'twill not be so;?And youths and maidens most poetical?Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring?In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still?Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs?O'er Philomela's