Nay! start not at that Figure-there!
Him who is rooted to his chair!
Look at him-look again! for he
Hath long been of thy family.
With legs that move not, if they can,
And useless arms, a trunk of man,
He sits, and with a vacant eye;
A sight to make a stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:
His world is in this single room:
Is this a place for mirthful cheer?
Can merry-making enter here?
The joyous Woman is the Mate
Of him in that forlorn estate!
He breathes a subterraneous damp;
But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
He is as mute as Jedborough Tower:
She jocund as it was of yore,
With all its bravery on; in times
When, all alive with merry chimes,
Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
It roused the Vale to holiday.
I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise, heroic praise, and true!
With admiration I behold
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well spent:
This do I see; and something more;
A strength unthought of heretofore!
Delighted am I for thy sake;
And yet a higher joy partake:
Our Human-nature throws away
25 Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
Ill health of body; and had pined
Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
So be it!--but let praise ascend
30 To Him who is our lord and friend!
Who from disease and suffering
Hath called for thee a second spring;
Repaid thee for that sore distress
By no untimely joyousness;
Which makes of thine a blissful state;
35 And cheers thy melancholy Mate!
40 [Composed September 25, 1803.-Published 1815.] FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmeredale!
Say that we come, and come by this day's
Its second twilight, and looks gay;
Fly upon swiftest wing round field and
A land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed Within himself as seems, composed;
And Rover whine, as at a second sight
Of near-approaching good that shall not
To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
The strife of happiness and pain,
Utterly dead! yet in the guise
Of little infants, when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
Her buoyant spirit can prevail
Where common cheerfulness would fail ;
She strikes upon him with the heat
Of July suns; he feels it sweet;
And from that Infant's face let joy
55 Yea, let our Mary's one companion child— That hath her six weeks' solitude beguiled With intimations manifold and dear, While we have wandered over wood and wild
Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer. 14
A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE, AFTER RETURNING TO THE VALE OF GRASMERE.
[Composed probably December, 1806.-Published 1807.]
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
Have romped enough, my little Boy!
Jane hangs her head upon my breast,
And you shall bring your stool and rest;
This corner is your own.
There! take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly:
And, as I promised, I will tell
That strange adventure which befell
A. poor blind Highland Boy.
A Highland Boy!-why call him so?
Because, my Darlings, ye must know
That, under hills which rise like towers,
Far higher hills than these of ours!
He from his birth had lived.
He ne'er had seen one earthly sight;
The sun, the day; the stars, the night;
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower,
Or fish in stream, or bird in bower,
Or woman, man, or child.
And yet he neither drooped nor pined,
Nor had a melancholy mind;
For God took pity on the Boy,
And was his friend; and gave him joy
Of which we nothing know.
His Mother, too, no doubt, above
Her other children him did love:
For was she here, or was she there,
She thought of him with constant care,
And more than mother's love.
And proud she was of heart, when clad
In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,
And bonnet with a feather gay,
To Kirk he on the sabbath day
Went hand in hand with her.
A dog, too, had he; not for need,
But one to play with and to feed;
Which would have led him, if bereft
Of company or friends, and left
Without a better guide.
And then the bagpipes he could blowAnd thus from house to house would go; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody
Than did the poor blind Boy.
Yet he had many a restless dream;
Both when he heard the eagles scream,
And when he heard the torrents roar,
And heard the water beat the shore
Near which their cottage stood.
Beside a lake their cottage stood,
Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;
But one of mighty size, and strange;
That, rough or smooth, is full of change,
And stirring in its bed.
10 For to this lake, by night and day,
The great Sea-water finds its way
Through long, long windings of the hills,
And drinks up all the pretty rills
And rivers large and strong:
15 Then hurries back the road it came-
Returns, on errand still the same;
This did it when the earth was new;
And this for evermore will do,
As long as earth shall last.
And, with the coming of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of distant lands.
And of those tales, whate'er they were,
The blind Boy always had his share;
Whether of mighty towns, or vales
With warmer suns and softer gales,
Or wonders of the Deep.
Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,
When from the water-side he heard
The shouting, and the jolly cheers;
The bustle of the mariners
In stillness or in storm.
But what do his desires avail?
For He must never handle sail;
Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float
His Mother often thought, and said,
What sin would be upon her head
If she should suffer this: "My Son,
Whate'er you do, leave this undone;
The danger is so great."
Thus lived he by Loch Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide, And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance,
Till he was ten years old.
When one day (and now mark me well,
Ye soon shall know how this befell)
He in a vessel of his own
On the swift flood is hurrying down,
Down to the mighty Sea.
In such a vessel never more
May human creature leave the shore!
If this or that way he should stir,
Woe to the poor blind Mariner !
For death will be his doom.
Such gifts had those seafaring men
Spread round that haven in the glen;
Each hut, perchance, might have its own;
And to the Boy they all were known-
He knew and prized them all.
The rarest was a Turtle-shell
Which he, poor Child, had studied well;
A shell of ample size, and light
As the pearly car of Amphitrite,
That sportive dolphins drew.
And, as a Coracle that braves
On Vaga's breast the fretful waves,
This shell upon the deep would swim,
And gaily lift its fearless brim
Above the tossing surge.
And this the little blind Boy knew;
And he a story strange yet true
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English Boy, O thought of bliss!
Our Highland Boy oft visited
The house that held this prize; and, led
By choice or chance, did thither come
One day when no one was at home,
And found the door unbarred.
While there he sate, alone and blind,
That story flashed upon his mind ;-
A bold thought roused him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook,
And bore it on his head.
He launched his vessel,-and in pride
Of spirit, from Loch Leven's side,
Stepped into it-his thoughts all free
As the light breezes that with glee
Sang through the adventurer's hair. A while he stood upon his feet; He felt the motion-took his seat; Still better pleased as more and more The tide retreated from the shore,
And sucked, and sucked him in.
And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the Child is driven ! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye.
Had stoutly launched from shore; 130
Alas! and when he felt their hands-
You've often heard of magic wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,
Or melt it into air:
She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again:
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;
She kissed him-how could she chastise?
She was too happy far.
Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased and reconciled
To live in peace on shore.
And in the lonely Highland dell
Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.
So all his dreams-that inward light
With which his soul had shone so bright-
All vanished;-'twas a heartfelt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,
As he had ever known.
Note. It is recorded in "Dampier's Voyages," that a boy, son of the captain of a Man-of-War, seated himself in a Turtle-shell, and floated in it from the shore to his father's ship, which lay at anchor at the distance of half a mile. In
deference to the opinion of a Friend, I have
substituted such a shell for the less elegant vessel in which my blind Voyager did actually entrust himself to the dangerous current of Loch 215 Leven, as was related to me by an eye-witness.
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND,
SUGGESTED BY A BEAUTIFUL RUIN UPON Upon those servants of another world
ONE OF THE ISLANDS OF LOCH LOMOND,
A PLACE CHOSEN FOR THE RETREAT OF
When madding Power her bolts had hurled,
A SOLITARY INDIVIDUAL, FROM WHOM Their habitation shook ;—it fell,
THIS HABITATION ACQUIRED THE NAME
OF
THE BROWNIE'S CELL.
And perished, save one narrow cell;
Whither, at length, a Wretch retired 25
Who neither grovelled nor aspired:
He, struggling in the net of pride,
The future scorned, the past defied;
Still tempering, from the unguilty forge
Of vain conceit, an iron scourge !
Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom! 20 The craven few who bowed the head
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