LXVII.

"A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares,
Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed;
Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers
Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread;
Till one was found by stroke of violence dead,
Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie;
A dire suspicion drove us from our shed;
In vain to find a friendly face we try,

Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;

LXVIII.

"For evil tongues made oath how on that day
My husband lurked about the neighbourhood;
Now he had fled, and whither none could say,
And he had done the deed in the dark wood-
Near his own home but he was mild and good;
Never on earth was gentler creature seen;

He'd not have robbed the raven of its food.

My husband's loving kindness stood between

Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen."

LXIX.

Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath

The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness

His hand had wrought; and when in the hour of death

He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless

With her last words, unable to suppress

His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive;
And, weeping loud in this extreme distress,
He cried-" Do pity me! That thou shouldst live
I neither ask nor wish-forgive me, but forgive!"

LXX.

To tell the change that Voice within her wrought,
Nature by sign or sound made no essay;
A sudden joy surprised expiring thought,
And every mortal pang dissolved away.
Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay;
Yet still while over her the husband bent,
A look was in her face which seemed to say,
"Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent
Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content."

LXXI.

She slept in peace, his pulses throbbed and stopped,
Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took
Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped,
When on his own he cast a rueful look.

His ears were never silent; sleep forsook
His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead;
All night from time to time under him shook
The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed;

And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!"

LXXII.

The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot;

And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care

Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought,
Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer

He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair.
The corse interred, not one hour he remained
Beneath their roof, but to the open air

A burthen, now with fortitude sustained,

He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.

LXXIII.

Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared
For act and suffering, to the city straight.
He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared:
"And from your doom," he added, "now I wait,
Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate."
Not ineffectual was that piteous claim:

"O welcome sentence which will end though late,"

He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came
Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!"

LXXIV.

His fate was pitied. Him in iron case
(Reader, forgive the intolerable thought)
They hung not :-no one on his form or face
Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought;
No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought
By lawless curiosity or chance,

When into storm the evening's sky is wrought,
Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance,
And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

THE YEW-TREE SEAT.

LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE, WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, COM

MANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT.

Comp. 1795.

Pub. 1798.

[Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake, and lay open to it, has long been enclosed; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favourite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual whose habits and character are here given, was a gentleman of the

neighbourhood, a man of talent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and returned to pass his time in seclusion on his own estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. Induced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house, on the rocks above the peninsula on which the Ferry House* stands. This property afterwards passed into the hands of the late Mr Curwen. The site was long ago pointed out by Mr West, in his Guide, as the pride of the Lakes, and now goes by the name of "The Station." So much used I to be delighted with the view from it, while a little boy, that some years before the first pleasure house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My notion was to witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the islands below and the intermingling water. I was not disappointed; and I hope the fact, insignificant as it may appear to some, may be thought worthy of note by others who may cast their eye over these notes.]

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 the bee love not these barren boughs ?1
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, and here taught this aged Tree 2
With its dark arms to form a circling bower,
I well remember. He was one who owned
No common soul. In youth by science nursed,
And led by nature into a wild scene

Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth
A favoured Being, knowing no desire

What if these barren boughs the bee not loves?

1798

First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree.

1798.

This refers to the Ferry on Windermere.-ED.

Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint
Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,
Owed him no service; wherefore he at once
With indignation turned himself away,1
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 :2
And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,
And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er,3
Fixing his downcast 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

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.
The world, for so it thought,

Owed him no service; he was like a plant

2

1798.

Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,

But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,
Regarded, and his spirit damped at once,
With indignation did he turn away.

1800.

1798.

The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless bird,
Piping along the margin of the lake.

1815.

The text of 1820 returns to that of 1798.

3

1820.

And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er.

1798.