A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;—
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one:

And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;-

To-day I fetched it from the rock;

It is the last of all my

flock."

1798.

XXIII.

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

[WRITTEN at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by the conversation of our next neighbour, Margaret Ashburner.]

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,
Would have brought us more good than a burthen of
gold,

Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, 'Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;

But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,-we'll die

Before he shall go with an inch of the land!'

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;

We could do what we liked with the land, it was ours;
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late;
And often, like one overburthened with sin,
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
I look at the fields, but I cannot go in!

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,

'What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!'

With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all,-and our birth-right was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son

Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain!

Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain!

And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my blood!

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought-We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!

1804.

XXIV.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET

[WRITTEN at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to enquire of him after her son.]

I.

WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,

Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

II.

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;

To have despaired, have hoped, believed
And been for evermore beguiled;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss ;
Was ever darkness like to this?

III.

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:

If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

What

power

IV.

Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.

VOL. I.

V.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long

From that ill thought; and, being blind,
Said, · Pride shall help me in my wrong;
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:' and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.

VI.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies.

VII.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount-how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be

All that is left to comfort thee.

VIII.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

IX.

I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Between the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.

X.

My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.

XI.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!