1 1836.

Birds warbled round me-and each trace

Of inward sadness had its charm;

Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!

And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.1

"Now tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and took him by the arm,
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?" 2

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,

And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."

"My little boy, which like you more,"
I said, and took him by the arm—
"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?"

"And tell me, had you rather be,"

I said, and held him by the arm,

"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?”

1798.

"Now little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why."-
"I cannot tell, I do not know."-
"Why, this is strange," said I;

"For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:1

There surely must some reason be

Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head,

He blushed with shame, nor made reply;2

And three times to the child I said,

His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply: 4
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.

In edd. 1798 to 1843 the title of this Poem is "Anecdote for Fathers, showing how the practice of lying may be taught."—ED.

[Written at Alfoxden. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, "I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again." The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.]

I.

"THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old,

In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.

Not higher than a two years' child

It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;1
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.

No leaves it has, no thorny points.

1798.

II.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top,

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:

Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close you'd say that they are bent 1
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;

And all have joined in one endeavour 2
To bury this poor thorn for ever.

III.

High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five yards from the mountain path,

This Thorn you on your left espy;

And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond

Of water-never dry,

Though but of compass small, and bare

To thirsty suns and parching air.3

IV.

And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.

V.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!

This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

Is like an infant's grave in size,

As like as like can be:

But never, never any where,

An infant's grave was half so fair.

VI.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.