As sure as I've the gift of sight, We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!" -Said Benjamin, "This whip shall lay A thousand, if they cross our way. I know that Wanton's noisy station, I know him and his occupation; The jolly bird hath learned his cheer Upon the banks of Windermere ; Where a tribe of them make merry, Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry; Hallooing from an open throat,
Like travellers shouting for a boat. -The tricks he learned at Windermere This vagrant owl is playing here— That is the worst of his employment: He's at the top of his enjoyment!
This explanation stilled the alarm, Cured the foreboder like a charm; This, and the manner, and the voice, Summoned the Sailor to rejoice; His heart is up—he fears no evil From life or death, from man or devil; He wheels-and, making many stops,
Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops;
And, while he talked of blows and scars,
Benjamin, among the stars,
Beheld a dancing-and a glancing;
Such retreating and advancing
As, I ween, was never seen
In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars!
THUS they, with freaks of proud delight, Beguile the remnant of the night; And many a snatch of jovial song Regales them as they wind along; While to the music, from on high, The echoes make a glad reply.— But the sage Muse the revel heeds No farther than her story needs; Nor will she servilely attend The loitering journey to its end. -Blithe spirits of her own impel The Muse, who scents the morning air, To take of this transported pair A brief and unreproved farewell; To quit the slow-paced waggon's side, And wander down yon hawthorn dell, With murmuring Greta for her guide. -There doth she ken the awful form Of Raven-crag-black as a storm— Glimmering through the twilight pale; And Ghimmer-crag,* his tall twin brother, Each peering forth to meet the other :-
And, while she roves through St. John's Vale, Along the smooth unpathwayed plain, By sheep-track or through cottage lane, Where no disturbance comes to intrude Upon the pensive solitude,
Her unsuspecting eye, perchance,
With the rude shepherd's favoured glance,
* The crag of the ewe lamb.
Beholds the faeries in array, Whose party-coloured garments gay The silent company betray:
Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight! For Skiddaw-top with rosy light
Is touched-and all the band take flight. -Fly also, Muse! and from the dell Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Feli; Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn; Across yon meadowy bottom look, Where close fogs hide their parent brook; And see, beyond that hamlet small, The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall, Lurking in a double shade,
By trees and lingering twilight made! There, at Blencathara's rugged feet, Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat To noble Clifford; from annoy Concealed the persecuted boy, Well pleased in rustic garb to feed His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed Among this multitude of hills, Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills; Which soon the morning shall enfold, From east to west, in ample vest Of massy gloom and radiance bold.
The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed Hung low, begin to rise and spread; Even while I speak, their skirts of grey Are smitten by a silver ray;
And lo!-up Castrigg's naked steep (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep
Along-and scatter and divide, Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied) The stately waggon is ascending, With faithful Benjamin attending, Apparent now beside his team- Now lost amid a glittering steam : And with him goes his Sailor-friend, By this time near their journey's end; And, after their high-minded riot, Sickening into thoughtful quiet; As if the morning's pleasant hour, Had for their joys a killing power. And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein Is opened of still deeper pain As if his heart by notes were stung From out the lowly hedge-rows flung; As if the Warbler lost in light Reproved his soarings of the night, In strains of rapture pure and holy Upbraided his distempered folly. Drooping is he, his step is dull; But the horses stretch and pull; With increasing vigour climb, Eager to repair lost time;
Whether, by their own desert,
Knowing what cause there is for shame, They are labouring to avert
As much as may be of the blame, Which, they foresee, must soon alight Upon his head, whom, in despite Of all his failings, they love best; Whether for him they are distrest,
Or, by length of fasting roused, Are impatient to be housed: Up against the hill they strain Tugging at the iron chain,
Tugging all with might and main, Last and foremost, every horse To the utmost of his force! And the smoke and respiration, Rising like an exhalation,
Blend with the mist-a moving shroud To form, an undissolving cloud; Which, with slant ray, the merry sun Takes delight to play upon. Never golden-haired Apollo,
Pleased some favourite chief to follow
Through accidents of peace or war, In a perilous moment threw
Around the object of his care Veil of such celestial hue; Interposed so bright a screen- Him and his enemies between!
Alas! what boots it ?-who can hide,
When the malicious Fates are bent On working out an ill intent?
Can destiny be turned aside ?
No-sad progress of my story! Benjamin, this outward glory
Cannot shield thee from thy Master, Who from Keswick has pricked forth, Sour and surly as the north;
And, in fear of some disaster, Comes to give what help he may,
And to hear what thou canst say;
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