STOKLEWATH
;
The
provincial
pronunciation
of
Stokdalewath
.
OR
,
THE
CUMBRIAN
VILLAGE
.
FROM
where
dark
clouds
of
curling
smoke
arise
,
And
the
tall
column
mounts
into
the
skies
;
Where
the
grim
arches
of
the
forge
appear
,
Whose
fluted
pillars
prop
the
thickening
air
;
Where
domes
of
peers
and
humble
roofs
are
found
Alike
to
spread
their
mingled
vapours
round
;
From
denser
air
and
busy
towns
I
run
,
To
catch
a
glimpse
of
the
unclouded
sun
;
Foe
to
the
toils
which
wealth
and
pomp
create
,
And
all
the
hard-wrought
tinsel
of
the
great
.
Aurora
now
had
left
her
crimson
bed
,
And
the
sky
glowed
with
pure
reflected
red
;
The
moving
stars
withdrew
their
timorous
light
,
As
her
gilt
chariot
burst
upon
the
sight
;
The
glittering
pearls
that
gentle
Eve
had
born
,
Were
all
adorning
the
sweet
brow
of
Morn
;
And
every
shrub
,
and
every
opening
flower
,
Unlock'd
some
jewel
for
the
rising
hour
.
Meanwhile
unseen
the
fragrant
zephyr
flew
,
And
gather'd
essence
from
the
balmy
dew
;
I
wander'd
on
,
till
Fancy
bade
me
stay
,
And
spend
with
Health
and
her
one
holiday
.
Where
the
clear
stream
its
useful
tenor
holds
,
And
the
shorn
flocks
come
whiten'd
from
the
folds
;
Where
on
each
side
the
cottages
are
seen
,
Which
orchards
shelter
,
and
which
poplars
screen
;
There
many
an
apple
,
in
autumnal
pride
,
Glows
with
red
cheek
,
and
blushes
side
by
side
;
Which
with
nice
care
is
lock'd
in
oaken
chest
,
Till
Christmas
comes
,
and
tarts
draw
out
the
feast
.
Nor
does
the
garden
useful
herbs
deny
,
Fenc'd
round
with
thorns
that
point
their
spears
on
high
;
There
the
thyme
blows
,
from
which
brown
bees
distil
The
sweets
that
all
their
waxen
storehouse
fill
.
The
parsley
next
extends
its
useful
row
,
And
marjorum
sweet
is
ever
taught
to
grow
;
Next
balm
,
and
sage
,
and
hyssop
,
physic
yield
,
With
cordial
mint
,
the
doctor
of
the
field
.
There
spreading
cabbage
all
their
strength
produce
,
And
take
firm
root
to
stand
for
winter's
use
.
Carrots
and
turnips
Sunday-feasts
,
supply
,
Till
blest
potatoes
meet
the
thankful
eye
.
There
the
tall
pea
in
stately
grandeur
stalks
,
And
humbler
bean
midst
her
own
fragrance
walks
.
The
ripening
currant
many
a
warbler
brings
,
'Mongst
whom
the
blackbird
spreads
his
sooty
wings
.
But
O
!
forbear
with
lure
or
artful
snare
To
trap
this
sweetest
songster
of
the
air
,
Nor
quench
in
darkness
his
quick
visual
ray
,
Shut
out
from
liberty
and
glorious
day
.
Enough
,
enough
!
while
to
the
cage
confin'd
,
Through
all
the
house
his
wilding
wood-notes
wind
;
Let
him
at
least
the
gift
of
light
retain
,
Nor
hear
his
whistling
pipe
with
conscious
pain
!
And
,
look
,
where
ornament
her
care
bestows
!
Above
the
lily
nods
the
blushing
rose
,
The
fringing
poppy
and
the
peony
vie
Which
shall
look
gayest
in
the
village
eye
.
Nor
think
not
these
unmeet
for
Sunday's
pride
,
When
with
a
woollen
thread
the
nosegay's
tied
!
There
southernweed
,
and
thyme
,
like
broom
,
behold
Spreading
their
shade
o'er
the
dark
marigold
.
Sweetwilliam
next
,
in
wig
of
early
pride
,
Smiles
on
himself
as
if
his
bob
he
eyed
;
The
rose
and
lily
round
the
posy
stray
,
And
in
the
church
waft
faintness
far
away
,
When
tir'd
with
walking
many
a
sultry
morn
Through
new
cut
hay
,
or
fields
of
standing
corn
;
E'en
while
at
prayers
a
sudden
chillness
steals
,
And
all
the
heart
the
creeping
sickness
feels
;
No
salts
are
there
,
—
yet
thyme
and
mint
renew
The
wasting
sense
,
and
cheer
from
pew
to
pew
.
But
now
the
sun
sends
forth
his
scorching
rays
,
And
the
hot
cattle
startling
cease
to
graze
;
While
to
the
pool
,
or
darkest
shade
they
hie
,
And
with
the
scourging
tail
whip
off
th'
offending
fly
.
Along
the
path
that
winds
around
the
hill
You
lose
the
milkmaid
—
though
you
hear
her
still
.
At
the
last
fair
she
caught
yon
thrilling
lay
,
And
now
the
woods
repeat
"
Auld
Robin
Gray
.
"
It
may
not
be
uninteresting
to
remark
,
that
while
Miss
Blamire
,
at
the
time
she
was
expressing
,
though
unconsciously
,
this
well-merited
compliment
to
a
sister
poetess
,
Lady
Anne
Lindsay
,
was
at
the
same
time
furnishing
us
with
a
fact
very
nearly
fixing
the
date
of
the
composition
of
her
own
poem
.
Lady
Anne
,
writing
to
Sir
Walter
Scott
,
says
:
"
'
Robin
Gray
,
'
so
called
from
its
being
the
name
of
the
old
herd
at
Balcarras
,
was
born
soon
after
the
close
of
the
year
1771.
******
At
our
fire-side
,
and
amongst
our
neighbours
(
it
)
was
always
called
for
.
"
As
may
be
well
conceived
,
it
instantly
started
into
popularity
,
and
the
mention
here
made
of
the
milk-maid's
having
got
it
at
the
last
fair
,
may
indicate
the
manner
how
it
crossed
the
Border
,
and
about
the
time
when
"
The
Cumbrian
Village
"
was
composed
.
The
air
to
which
"
Auld
Robin
Gray
"
was
then
sung
would
,
in
all
probability
,
be
the
old
Scotch
one
to
which
Lady
Anne
wrote
it
;
the
air
to
which
it
is
now
generally
sung
,
was
composed
some
considerable
time
afterwards
by
the
late
Rev.
W.
Leeves
,
Rector
of
Wrington
,
near
Bristol
,
the
friend
of
Mrs
Hannah
More
.
The
waving
pail
swims
lightly
on
her
head
,
For
equal
steps
to
measur'd
music
tread
.
Adown
the
stream
where
woods
begin
to
throw
Their
verdant
arms
around
the
rocks
below
,
A
rustic
bridge
across
the
tide
is
thrown
,
Where
briars
and
woodbine
hide
the
hoary
stone
,
A
simple
arch
salutes
th'
admiring
eye
,
And
the
mill's
clack
the
tumbling
waves
supply
.
But
lest
society
some
loss
should
share
,
And
nearest
neighbours
lack
their
neighbour's
fare
,
The
tottering
step-stones
cross
the
stream
are
laid
,
O'er
which
trips
lightly
many
a
busy
maid
,
And
many
a
matron
,
when
one
failing
cow
Bids
no
big
cheese
within
the
cheese-vat
grow
,
Their
wealthier
neighbour
then
,
her
bowls
to
swell
,
Will
gladly
take
what
they
as
gladly
sell
.
The
morning
toils
are
now
completely
o'er
,
The
bowls
well
scalded
,
and
well
swept
the
floor
.
The
daughter
at
the
needle
plies
the
seam
,
While
the
good
mother
hastens
to
the
stream
:
There
the
long
webs
,
that
wintry
moons
began
,
Lie
stretch'd
and
beaming
in
the
summer's
sun
;
And
lest
he
scorch
them
in
his
fervid
hours
,
She
scoops
along
the
nice
conducted
showers
;
Till
like
the
snow
,
that
tips
the
mountain's
height
,
The
brown's
dull
shade
gives
place
to
purest
white
;
While
her
sweet
child
knee-deep
is
wading
seen
,
Picking
bright
stones
,
or
tumbling
on
the
green
.
But
now
the
sun's
bright
whirling
wheels
appear
On
the
broad
front
of
noon
,
in
full
career
,
A
sign
more
welcome
hangs
not
in
the
air
,
For
now
the
sister's
call
the
brothers
hear
;
Dinner's
the
word
,
and
every
cave
around
Devours
the
voice
,
and
feasts
upon
the
sound
.
'Tis
dinner
,
father
!
all
the
brothers
cry
,
Throw
down
the
spade
,
and
heave
the
pickaxe
by
;
'Tis
dinner
,
father
!
home
they
panting
go
,
While
the
tired
parent
still
pants
on
more
slow
.
Now
the
fried
rasher
meets
them
on
the
way
,
And
savoury
pancakes
welcome
steams
convey
.
Their
pace
they
mend
,
till
at
the
pump
they
stand
,
Deluge
the
face
,
and
purify
the
hand
,
And
then
to
dinner
.
There
the
women
wait
,
And
the
tired
father
fills
his
chair
of
state
;
Smoking
potatoes
meet
their
thankful
eyes
,
And
Hunger
wafts
the
grateful
sacrifice
;
To
her
libations
of
sweet
milk
are
pour'd
,
And
Peace
and
Plenty
watch
around
the
board
.
Now
,
till
the
sun
has
somewhat
sunk
in
height
,
Yet
long
before
he
dips
his
wheels
in
night
,
The
nut-brown
labourers
their
senses
steep
In
the
soft
dews
of
renovating
sleep
;
The
worthy
sire
to
the
soft
bed
repairs
,
The
sons
beneath
the
shade
forget
their
cares
.
The
clock
strikes
two
,
it
beats
upon
the
ear
,
And
soon
the
parent's
anxious
voice
they
hear
;
Come
,
come
,
my
lads
,
you
must
not
sleep
all
day
!
They
rub
their
eyes
,
start
up
,
then
stalk
away
.
But
let
me
not
at
twelve
forget
to
eye
The
learned
school-dame's
jumping
,
shrill-ton'd
fry
.
Some
near
at
home
to
dinner
dancing
run
,
Eager
for
play
when
the
repast
is
done
;
Others
more
distant
,
bring
their
satchel'd
fare
Safely
infolded
by
a
mother's
care
.
On
a
wood
trencher
stands
the
tower-like
pie
,
While
bread
and
cheese
form
battlements
on
high
;
A
crust
for
'tween-meals
in
a
corner
stows
,
And
guarded
butter
oaten-cakes
enclose
;
And
shining
tin-flasks
of
new
milk
,
which
seem
Best
to
demand
the
name
of
good
thick
cream
!
The
dinner
done
;
the
happy
train
so
gay
,
In
various
groups
disperse
to
various
play
;
Some
to
the
hounded-hare
the
sinews
strain
,
And
fleet
as
greyhounds
scour
along
the
plain
.
At
last
the
hare
through
all
her
windings
caught
Gets
leave
to
breathe
,
and
breath
brings
change
of
thought
;
For
races
some
,
but
more
for
foot-ball
cry
,
Mark
out
their
ground
,
and
toss
the
globe
on
high
;
The
well
fought
field
deals
many
a
galling
stroke
,
And
many
a
chief's
o'erthrown
,
and
many
a
shin
is
broke
.
These
active
feats
,
while
manly
imps
essay
,
The
gentler
sex
choose
out
a
gentler
play
;
They
form
a
smiling
circle
on
the
green
,
Where
chuckstones
,
dolls
,
and
totums
,
all
are
seen
;
A
nest
of
linnets
,
a
few
happy
elves
,
Run
home
to
see
if
yet
they
pick
themselves
,
Though
but
an
hour
ago
their
throats
they
cramm'd
,
And
chirp'd
,
and
cheep'd
,
and
well
the
mother
shamm'd
.
Escap'd
in
happy
hour
from
rod-taught
lore
,
Their
books
forgot
,
nor
work
remember'd
more
;
All
share
the
joy
,
but
one
imprison'd
slave
,
Who
from
offended
worth
no
boon
would
save
.
The
dame
he
said
was
like
a
clocking
hen
,
Who
ne'er
would
let
them
out
when
it
did
rain
;
And
if
again
his
hands
she
dar'd
to
switch
,
He'd
call
her
to
her
face
a
wrinkl'd
witch
.
This
told
a
wheedler
,
much
dislik'd
by
all
,
Whom
in
abhorrence
they
tale-pyet
call
,
Who
for
a
raisin
or
a
fig
would
tell
Faults
of
a
brother
he
lov'd
ne'er
so
well
;
Th'
offender's
soul
no
threaten'd
pain
unbends
,
Nor
with
the
dame
will
his
proud
heart
be
friends
,
He
loves
her
not
;
for
this
the
hour
of
play
,
And
much-wish'd
dinner
,
both
are
snatch'd
away
.
And
now
the
dame
in
neat
white
mob
is
seen
,
Her
russet
gown
,
silk
kerchief
,
apron
clean
,
At
the
school
door
her
tremulous
voice
is
heard
,
And
the
blithe
game's
unwillingly
deferr'd
.
From
noon
till
morn
rests
female
toil
;
save
come
The
evening
hours
when
lowing
cows
draw
home
.
Now
the
good
neighbour
walks
her
friend
to
see
,
And
knit
an
hour
,
and
drink
a
dish
of
tea
.
She
comes
unlook'd
for
,
—
wheat-bread
is
to
seek
,
The
baker
has
none
,
got
no
yeast
last
week
;
And
little
Peggy
thinks
herself
ill
sped
,
Though
she
has
got
a
great
piece
gingerbread
.
Home
she
returns
,
but
disappointment's
trace
Darkens
her
eye
,
and
lengthens
all
her
face
;
She
whispers
lowly
in
her
sister's
ear
,
Scarce
can
restrain
the
glistening
,
swelling
tear
.
The
mother
marks
,
and
to
the
milk-house
goes
,
Blythe
Peggy
smiles
,
she
well
the
errand
knows
There
from
the
bowl
where
cream
so
coolly
swims
,
The
future
butter
generously
skims
,
And
,
flour
commixing
,
forms
a
rural
bread
That
for
the
wheaten
loaf
oft
stands
in
stead
;
Cup
after
cup
sends
steaming
circles
round
,
And
oft
the
weak
tea's
in
the
full
pot
drown'd
;
It
matters
not
,
for
while
their
news
they
tell
The
mind's
content
,
and
all
things
move
on
well
.
The
sun
has
now
his
saffron
robe
put
on
,
Stept
from
his
chariot
that
with
rubies
shone
,
The
glittering
monarch
gains
the
western
gate
,
And
for
a
moment
shines
in
regal
state
;
His
streaming
mantle
floats
along
the
sky
,
While
he
glides
softly
from
the
gazing
eye
;
From
saffron
tinge
to
yellow
soon
it
flew
,
Sea-green
the
next
,
and
then
to
darkest
blue
.
Now
different
cares
employ
the
village
train
,
The
rich
in
cattle
press
the
milky
vein
;
When
,
lo
!
a
voice
sends
direful
notes
around
,
And
sharp
vexation
mingles
in
the
sound
;
'Tis
little
Peggy
,
she
the
pail
would
fill
,
And
on
old
Hawky
try
her
early
skill
.
She
strok'd
and
clapp'd
her
,
but
she'd
not
allow
;
The
well
known
hand
best
pleased
the
knowing
cow
;
Tho'
cabbage
leaves
before
her
band
was
cast
,
Hawky
refus'd
the
coaxing
rich
repast
;
And
when
the
little
hand
unapt
she
found
,
She
kick'd
,
and
whelm'd
her
on
the
slippery
ground
.
Along
yon
hedge
now
mouldering
and
decay'd
,
In
gather'd
heaps
you
see
the
fragments
laid
;
Piled
up
with
care
to
swell
the
nightly
blaze
,
And
in
the
widow's
hut
a
fire
to
raise
.
See
where
she
comes
with
her
blue
apron
full
,
Crown'd
with
some
scatter'd
locks
of
dingy
wool
.
In
years
she
seems
,
and
on
her
well
patch'd
clothes
Want
much
has
added
to
her
other
woes
.
There
is
a
poor-house
;
but
some
little
pride
Forbids
her
there
her
humbled
head
to
hide
;
O'er
former
scenes
of
better
days
she
runs
,
And
every
thing
like
degradation
shuns
!
Now
hooded
Eve
slow
gliding
comes
in
view
,
Busied
in
threading
pearls
of
diamond
dew
;
Waking
the
flowers
that
early
close
the
eye
,
And
giving
drops
to
those
that
else
would
die
.
And
what
is
man
but
such
a
tender
flower
,
That
buds
,
blooms
,
fades
,
and
dies
within
the
hour
?
Where
round
yon
cottage
the
rosemary
grows
,
And
turncap
lilies
flaunt
beside
the
rose
,
Two
aged
females
turn
the
weary
wheel
,
And
,
as
they
turn
,
their
slumbering
thoughts
reveal
:
"
How
long
is't
,
think
ye
,
since
th'
old
style
was
lost
Poor
England
may
remember't
to
her
cost
!
E'er
since
that
time
the
weather
has
grown
cold
,
(
For
Jane
forgets
that
she
is
now
grown
old
)
.
I
knew
when
I
liv'd
servant
at
Woodmile
,
So
scorching
hot
the
weather
was
in
April
,
The
cows
would
startle
,
and
by
ten
o'clock
My
master
us'd
his
horses
to
unyoke
;
'Tis
not
so
now
;
the
sun
has
lost
its
power
;
The
very
apples
now-a-days
are
sour
!
Could
not
the
Parson
tell
the
reason
why
There
are
such
changes
both
in
earth
and
sky
?
"
"
'Tis
not
these
only
,
"
Margaret
replied
,
"
For
many
a
change
besides
have
I
espied
.
Look
at
the
girls
!
—
they
all
dress
now-a-days
Like
them
fine
folk
who
act
them
nonsense
plays
!
No
more
the
decent
mob
surrounds
the
face
,
Border'd
with
edging
,
or
bit
good
bone-lace
;
Gauze
flappets
soon
—
that
will
not
last
a
day
—
We'll
see
them
flaunting
whilst
they're
making
hay
!
All
things
are
chang'd
,
the
world's
turned
upside
down
,
And
every
servant
wears
a
cotton
gown
,
Bit
flimsy
things
,
that
have
no
strength
to
wear
,
And
will
like
any
blotting-paper
tear
!
I
made
my
Nelly
a
half-worsted
gown
,
She
slighting
told
me
't
would
not
do
in
town
!
This
pride
!
this
pride
!
it
sure
must
have
a
fall
,
And
bring
some
heavy
judgment
on
us
all
!
They're
grown
so
bold
too
,
and
their
lads
allow
,
When
courting
them
,
to
skulk
behind
a
cow
,
Till
all's
in
bed
.
My
John
,
when
courting
me
,
Us'd
after
supper
to
come
manfully
;
For
oft
he
us'd
to
say
he
knew
no
place
Where
honesty
need
fear
to
shew
its
face
.
No
more
it
need
!
My
master
us'd
to
cry
,
—
He
fear'd
but
two
things
—
to
turn
thief
,
and
lie
.
"
The
leading
crow
her
colony
brings
home
,
And
two
by
two
they
seek
their
leafy
dome
.
Of
all
the
branches
that
invite
to
rest
,
Each
loves
the
one
that
hangs
above
its
nest
;
What
though
of
rudest
architecture
made
,
Nor
thorns
surrounding
nor
with
clay
inlaid
,
Yet
'tis
the
spot
where
infant
days
began
,
That
thus
attaches
both
the
crow
and
man
!
Now
on
the
green
the
youth
their
gambols
keep
,
Stretching
their
sinews
in
the
bounding
leap
;
Others
the
wrestler's
glory
would
maintain
,
Twist
the
strong
nerve
and
fill
the
swelling
vein
;
One
youth
his
pipe
blows
from
the
rocky
hill
,
Seated
like
Pan
above
the
clacking
mill
;
Another
strikes
the
violin's
cheerful
string
,
Light
to
the
dance
the
bounding
virgins
spring
:
'Tis
most
part
nature
,
yet
some
art
is
found
When
one
—
two
—
three
lies
heavy
on
the
ground
;
For
'tis
not
airy
feet
which
seem
to
fly
,
Then
come
descended
quivering
from
the
sky
,
Nor
form
that
every
Grace
was
known
to
bend
,
Nor
foot
that
every
feathered
Hour
would
lend
,
Has
any
merit
here
;
—
but
feet
of
sound
,
Which
tabour-like
re-echo
on
the
ground
;
Or
as
the
drum
a
certain
sound
repeats
,
Flutters
now
low
,
and
then
in
thunder
beats
;
From
Nature
and
from
Art
how
wide
the
sphere
Courts
unimprov'd
would
be
what
you
see
here
.
Now
Eve
had
sprinkled
every
flower
with
dew
,
And
her
gauze
hood
was
wet
and
dripping
through
;
A
light
grey
cloak
to
the
warm
fleece
allied
,
Her
chilly
fingers
close
and
closer
tied
,
That
,
with
a
fur-lined
cap
,
the
ears'
delight
,
Was
given
her
by
her
elder
sister
Night
.
From
walks
retired
,
that
shun
the
inquiring
view
,
A
faithful
couple
to
the
shades
withdrew
.
The
maid
had
every
blush
that
bloom
can
give
,
Where
youth
fresh
glowing
bids
the
blossom
live
,
And
the
fair
cheek
,
with
lilies
all
bespread
,
Shades
the
full
rose
,
and
hides
its
bolder
red
,
Pure
as
the
drop
that
in
the
early
morn
Hangs
with
such
sweetness
smiling
on
the
thorn
,
Artless
as
youth
before
the
cranky
wile
Shadows
the
frown
,
or
plays
within
the
smile
;
She
moves
,
the
wonder
of
the
rural
plain
,
And
many
a
sigh
steals
to
her
ear
in
vain
.
A
youth
there
was
like
her
,
of
better
mould
,
Whose
soul
deem'd
lightly
of
the
weight
of
gold
.
Around
his
birth
some
favouring
fortune
shone
,
Which
some
call
merit
,
though
no
way
their
own
;
The
Church
was
laid
out
as
his
rising
line
,
Himself
delighting
in
the
text
divine
;
That
text
,
at
home
by
country
masters
taught
,
Might
stint
the
learning
but
keep
back
the
fault
,
For
sure
great
knowledge
we
should
all
despise
,
Unless
the
man
be
virtuous
as
he's
wise
.
The
mother's
eye
had
long
o'er
all
her
son
With
many
a
fear
,
and
much
observance
run
,
Seen
where
beneath
the
elms
a
path
was
worn
,
—
Mark'd
him
at
pensive
eve
,
and
laughing
morn
Still
seek
the
shade
,
—
now
with
sad
step
,
and
slow
,
With
folded
arms
,
and
head
declining
low
;
Then
livelier
thoughts
awake
a
quicker
pace
,
And
hope
breaks
out
and
glows
along
his
face
.
Thus
to
the
partner
of
her
thirty
years
She
soft
began
:
—
Thou
calmer
of
my
fears
,
Oft
has
thy
firmer
mind
my
sorrows
stilled
,
As
from
thy
lips
thy
better
sense
distilled
,
Hast
thou
observ'd
our
dearest
hope
of
late
?
Whose
spirits
flag
with
some
uncommon
weight
,
—
Some
secret
anguish
sickens
o'er
his
soul
,
And
silent
night
has
seen
the
torrent
roll
,
The
wandering
stream
has
from
his
eyelids
crept
,
And
his
moist
pillow
shown
he
has
not
slept
.
My
life
,
rejoin'd
the
father
,
in
thy
mind
The
mist
of
tenderness
the
optics
blind
,
Imagin'd
ills
from
feeling
ever
flow
,
All
things
look
big
when
seen
through
clouds
of
woe
;
I've
mark'd
no
difference
save
what
study
brings
,
They
all
turn
grave
who
search
the
source
of
things
.
This
not
believing
,
ceas'd
she
to
reply
,
But
still
sent
forth
her
keen
inquiring
eye
,
Mark'd
when
sweet
Anna's
name
breath'd
in
the
sound
,
How
quick
his
eye
sprung
from
the
thoughtful
ground
;
And
when
just
praise
the
beauteous
maid
would
grace
,
Joy
smooth'd
his
brow
,
and
blushes
dyed
his
face
.
This
wak'd
suspicion
—
rumour
told
the
whole
,
And
now
she
knew
what
sicken'd
o'er
his
soul
.
The
father
skill'd
in
all
the
ways
of
man
,
Thus
,
to
his
mate
affectionate
,
began
:
In
all
distempers
of
the
feverish
mind
,
The
greatest
good
from
change
of
scene
we
find
.
Tho'
one
dear
object
,
touchstone
of
our
woe
,
Seems
to
go
with
us
wheresoe'er
we
go
,
Yet
gay
variety
divides
the
view
,
—
Spite
of
ourselves
we
gaze
at
what
is
new
;
Back-turning
thought
will
far-past
scenes
survey
,
That
fainter
grow
,
worn
out
by
length
of
way
;
A
softer
mist
o'er
every
object
spreads
,
Figures
grow
dim
,
and
towers
scarce
shew
their
heads
:
Back-turning
thought
strains
his
sunk
hollow
eye
,
But
scenes
retire
,
and
dearest
objects
fly
;
He
lags
no
more
—
by
soft
degrees
is
stole
The
keenest
anguish
that
inwraps
the
soul
.
To
college
,
then
,
our
sorrowing
son
shall
go
,
New
loves
,
or
friends
,
shall
wear
out
all
his
woe
;
Ideas
changing
as
new
views
arise
Let
in
new
light
,
and
almost
change
the
eyes
;
Objects
adored
,
that
matchless
seem'd
before
,
Excite
no
wonder
,
and
delight
no
more
.
The
mother
sigh'd
,
the
starting
tear
withheld
,
To
her
fond
partner
ever
fond
to
yield
;
Nor
ever
felt
she
what
is
call'd
command
,
His
wish
grew
hers
in
magic
quickness
bland
.
And
now
Pretence
had
whisper'd
to
the
maid
Thro'
all
the
wood
her
new
wash'd
flock
had
stray'd
;
The
youth
too
sought
the
shade
in
hopes
to
clear
Her
pearl-set
eye
that
hung
with
many
a
tear
.
Far
from
the
uproar
of
the
loud
cascade
,
Where
the
slow
stream
crept
softly
to
the
shade
,
Beneath
a
rock
with
venturous
trees
o'erhung
,
That
seem
by
some
enchantment
to
have
sprang
,
For
the
scant
soil
nor
moss
nor
grass
bestows
,
But
yawning
cliffs
the
sinewy
roots
expose
;
There
on
her
cheek
the
roses
felt
the
dew
,
Which
drop
by
drop
extracts
their
softest
hue
:
"
Why
weeps
my
Anna
?
Sure
she
knows
this
heart
,
And
knows
in
absence
we
but
seem
to
part
;
Though
mountains
rise
,
and
the
slow
weary
day
Draws
out
the
journey
a
long
length
of
way
,
Yet
trust
me
,
Anna
,
still
my
soul
shall
be
Chain'd
to
thy
soul
,
and
never
part
from
thee
!
"
Sweet
Anna
shook
her
head
—
sad
sighs
oppose
The
labouring
words
that
to
the
threshold
rose
;
The
lip
kept
moving
,
but
no
accent
fell
,
Yet
the
round
tear
perhaps
can
speak
as
well
.
"
O
cease
,
my
Anna
,
or
declare
thy
fears
,
I
cannot
,
cannot
bear
these
softening
tears
!
What
have
I
done
to
tempt
thy
generous
mind
To
form
a
thought
that
I
can
grow
unkind
?
"
"
Nothing
"
—
she
sobb'd
,
—
"
but
—
but
it
cannot
be
—
But
every
eye
must
take
delight
in
thee
!
Some
maid
whom
education
softens
o'er
,
To
whose
rich
mind
each
day
keeps
adding
more
;
Whose
winning
manners
mixed
with
every
grace
,
Invite
the
eye
,
and
keep
it
from
the
face
,
—
And
,
when
she
speaks
,
Persuasion's
lyre
is
strung
,
And
the
sweet
words
come
warbling
from
her
tongue
;
If
such
a
one
thy
heart
in
fetters
hold
,
—
For
I
have
not
one
fear
from
sordid
gold
,
I
shall
not
blame
my
William
,
—
still
may
he
Taste
every
bless
,
whate'er
becomes
of
me
.
"
"
Dearest
of
women
,
"
William
thus
rejoined
,
"
How
can
such
fears
e'er
cloud
so
bright
a
mind
!
In
finer
arts
I
know
some
may
excel
,
Some
have
more
grace
,
and
some
few
speak
as
well
Yet
the
sweet
accent
will
but
thrill
my
ear
,
Trust
me
,
my
Anna
,
't
will
not
reach
me
here
.
This
heart
is
thine
,
and
every
faithful
chord
Will
only
vibrate
to
thy
well
known
word
:
From
infant
years
thy
growing
worth
I've
known
,
Our
wish
the
same
,
and
our
delights
but
one
;
Believest
thou
this
?
The
winged
hours
shall
press
One
after
one
,
to
crown
my
happiness
;
The
day
shall
come
when
I
shall
claim
my
own
,
And
freely
to
the
world
my
love
make
known
.
"
So
saying
,
to
their
homes
they
separate
go
,
He
more
at
ease
—
she
something
less
in
woe
.
In
this
gay
village
hangs
a
wonderous
sign
,
The
Hounds
and
Hare
are
the
immense
design
.
There
hunters
crack
their
whips
,
and
seem
to
bound
O'er
every
hedge
,
nor
touch
the
mimic
ground
;
The
huntsman
winds
his
horn
,
his
big
cheeks
swell
,
And
whippers-in
make
lagging
terriers
yell
;
The
sportive
scene
tempts
many
a
wight
to
stay
,
As
to
the
school
he
drags
th'
unwilling
way
.
Around
the
front
inviting
benches
wait
,
Conscious
of
many
a
glass
and
sage
debate
;
The
great
man
of
the
village
cracks
his
joke
,
Reads
o'er
the
news
,
and
whiffs
the
curling
smoke
;
Tells
tales
of
old
,
and
nods
,
and
heaves
the
can
,
Makes
fixed
decrees
,
and
seems
much
more
than
man
.
"
Come
,
Jack
,
sit
down
.
Thy
father
,
man
,
and
me
,
Broke
many
a
glass
,
and
many
a
freak
had
we
.
'Twas
when
he
sought
thy
mother
,
at
Carel
Fair
(
I
mind
the
corn
was
very
bad
that
year
)
We
met
thy
mother
and
my
wife
i'
the
street
,
And
took
them
into
Beck's
to
get
a
treat
;
Blind
Joseph
played
,
and
I
took
out
thy
mother
,
Thy
father
,
he
was
shy
,
he
got
another
;
And
when
I
took
her
back
,
as
you
may
see
,
I
whipp'd
her
blushing
on
thy
father's
knee
.
Then
in
came
Robin
Bell
,
who
lik'd
her
too
,
And
bit
his
lip
,
and
turn'd
both
red
and
blue
,
Teas'd
her
to
dance
,
as
you
may
see
,
and
then
Kept
her
himself
,
nor
brought
her
back
again
.
I
fir'd
at
this
,
while
up
thy
father
rose
,
Gave
him
a
kick
,
and
tweak'd
him
by
the
nose
.
They
stripped
to
fight
,
as
you
may
see
,
and
I
In
seeing
fair
play
got
a
blacken'd
eye
;
I
durst
not
shew
my
face
at
home
next
day
,
But
bade
my
mother
say
I
went
away
,
But
kept
my
bed
,
i'fegs
,
as
you
may
see
;
Who
is
it
now
fights
for
their
lasses
?
eh
!
"
The
blacksmith
laugh'd
,
the
cobbler
gave
a
smile
,
And
the
pleas'd
tailor
scratch'd
his
head
the
while
.
But
hark
!
what
sounds
of
mingl'd
joy
and
woe
From
yon
poor
cottage
bursting
seem
to
flow
.
'Tis
honest
Sarah
.
Sixpence-Harry's
come
,
And
,
after
all
his
toils
,
got
safely
home
.
"
Welcome
,
old
soldier
,
welcome
from
the
wars
!
Honour
the
man
,
my
lads
,
seam'd
o'er
with
scars
!
Come
give's
thy
hand
,
and
bring
the
t'
other
can
,
And
tell
us
all
thou'st
done
,
and
seen
,
my
man
.
"
Now
expectation
stares
in
every
eye
,
The
jaw
falls
down
,
and
every
soul
draws
nigh
,
With
ear
turn'd
up
,
and
head
held
all
awry
.
"
Why
,
sir
,
the
papers
tell
you
all
that's
done
,
What
battle's
lost
,
and
what
is
hardly
won
.
But
when
the
eye
looks
into
private
woes
,
And
sees
the
grief
that
from
one
battle
flows
,
Small
cause
of
triumph
can
the
bravest
feel
,
For
never
yet
were
brave
hearts
made
of
steel
.
It
happen'd
once
,
in
storming
of
a
town
,
When
our
bold
men
had
push'd
the
ramparts
down
,
We
found
them
starving
,
the
last
loaf
was
gone
,
Beef
was
exhausted
,
and
they
flour
had
none
;
Their
springs
we
drain
,
to
ditches
yet
they
fly
—
The
stagnant
ditch
lent
treacherous
supply
;
For
soon
the
putrid
source
their
blood
distains
,
And
the
quick
fever
hastens
through
their
veins
.
In
the
same
room
the
dying
and
the
dead
—
Nay
,
sometimes
,
even
in
the
self-same
bed
,
—
You
saw
the
mother
with
her
children
lie
,
None
but
the
father
left
to
close
the
sunken
eye
.
In
a
dark
corner
,
once
myself
I
found
A
youth
whose
blood
was
pouring
through
the
wound
;
No
sister's
hand
,
no
tender
mother's
eye
To
stanch
that
wound
was
fondly
watching
by
;
Famine
had
done
her
work
,
and
low
were
laid
The
loving
mother
and
the
blooming
maid
.
He
rais'd
his
eyes
,
and
bade
me
strike
the
blow
,
I've
nought
to
lose
,
he
cried
,
so
fear
no
foe
;
No
foe
is
near
,
I
softly
made
reply
,
A
soldier
,
friend
,
would
save
and
not
destroy
.
A
drop
of
cordial
in
my
flask
I
found
;
(
And
I
myself
am
sovereign
for
a
wound
;
I'll
bleed
you
all
,
lads
!
if
you
should
be
ill
,
And
in
the
toothache
I've
no
little
skill
.
Our
drummer
too
,
poor
man
,
dealt
much
in
horns
,
And
I've
his
very
knack
of
cutting
corns
.
)
Well
;
as
I
dress'd
the
youth
,
I
found
'twas
he
That
oft
had
charm'd
the
sentinels
and
me
;
From
post
to
post
like
lightning
he
would
fly
,
And
pour
down
thunder
from
his
red-hot
sky
;
We
prais'd
him
for't
,
—
so
I
my
captain
told
,
For
well
I
knew
he
lik'd
the
foe
that's
bold
;
So
then
the
surgeon
took
him
in
his
charge
,
And
the
captain
made
him
prisoner
at
large
.
"
"
Was
he
a
Spanishman
,
or
Frenchman
,
whether
?
But
it's
no
matter
;
they're
all
rogues
together
!
"
"
You're
much
mistaken
:
Goodness
I
have
found
Spring
like
the
grass
that
clothes
the
common
ground
;
Some
more
,
some
less
,
you
know
,
grows
every
where
;
Some
soils
are
fertile
,
and
some
are
but
bare
.
Nay
,
'mongst
the
Indians
I've
found
kindly
cheer
,
And
as
much
pity
as
I
could
do
here
!
Once
in
their
woods
I
stray'd
a
length
of
way
,
And
thought
I'd
known
the
path
that
homeward
lay
;
We'd
gone
to
forage
,
but
I
lost
the
rest
,
Which
,
till
quite
out
of
hearing
,
never
guess'd
.
I
hollow'd
loud
,
some
voices
made
reply
,
But
not
my
comrades
;
not
one
friend
was
nigh
.
Some
men
appear'd
,
their
faces
painted
o'er
,
The
wampum-belt
,
and
tomahawk
they
bore
;
Their
ears
were
hung
with
beads
,
that
largely
spread
A
breadth
of
wing
,
and
cover'd
half
the
head
.
I
kiss'd
the
ground
;
one
older
than
the
rest
Stepp'd
forth
,
and
laid
his
hand
upon
my
breast
,
Then
seiz'd
my
arms
,
and
sign'd
that
I
should
go
,
And
learn
with
them
to
bend
the
sturdy
bow
:
I
bow'd
and
follow'd
;
sadly
did
I
mourn
,
And
never
more
expected
to
return
.
"
Here
Sarah
sobb'd
,
and
stepp'd
behind
the
door
,
And
with
her
tears
bedew'd
the
dusty
floor
.
"
We
travell'd
on
some
days
through
woods
alone
,
At
length
we
reach'd
their
happy
silent
home
.
A
few
green
acres
the
whole
plot
compose
,
Which
woods
surround
,
and
fencing
rocks
enclose
,
Skirting
whose
banks
,
a
river
fond
of
play
Sometimes
stood
still
,
and
sometimes
ran
away
;
The
branching
deer
would
drink
the
dimpl'd
tide
,
And
crop
the
wild
herbs
on
its
flowery
side
,
—
Around
the
silent
hut
would
sometimes
stray
,
Then
,
at
the
sight
of
man
,
bound
swift
away
;
But
all
in
vain
;
the
hunter's
flying
dart
Springs
from
the
bow
,
and
quivers
in
the
heart
.
A
mother
and
four
daughters
here
we
found
,
With
shells
encircled
,
and
with
feathers
crown'd
,
Bright
pebbles
shone
amidst
the
plaited
hair
,
While
lesser
shells
surround
the
moon-like
ear
.
With
screams
at
sight
of
me
away
they
flew
(
For
fear
or
pleasure
springs
from
what
is
new
)
;
Then
,
to
their
brothers
,
screaming
still
they
ran
,
Thinking
my
clothes
and
me
the
self-same
man
;
When
bolder
grown
,
they
ventur'd
something
near
,
Light
touch'd
my
coat
,
but
started
back
with
fear
.
When
time
and
use
had
chas'd
their
fears
away
,
And
I
had
learned
some
few
short
words
to
say
,
They
oft
would
tell
me
,
would
I
but
allow
The
rampant
lion
to
o'erhang
my
brow
,
And
on
my
cheek
the
spotted
leopard
wear
,
Stretch
out
my
ears
,
and
let
my
arms
go
bare
.
"
"
O
mercy
on
us
?
"
cried
the
listeners
round
,
Their
gaping
wonder
bursting
into
sound
.
"
Tho'
different
in
their
manners
,
yet
their
heart
Was
equal
mine
in
every
better
part
.
Brave
to
a
fault
,
if
courage
fault
can
be
;
Kind
to
their
fellows
,
doubly
kind
to
me
.
Some
little
arts
my
travell'd
judgment
taught
,
Which
,
tho'
a
prize
to
them
,
seem'd
greater
than
they
ought
.
"
Needless
with
bows
for
me
the
woods
to
roam
,
I
therefore
tried
to
do
some
good
at
home
.
The
birds
,
or
deer
,
or
boars
,
were
all
their
food
,
Save
the
swift
salmon
of
the
silver
flood
;
And
when
long
storms
the
winter-stores
would
drain
,
Hunger
might
ask
the
stinted
meal
in
vain
.
Some
goats
I
saw
that
brows'd
the
rocks
among
,
And
oft
I
thought
to
trap
their
playful
young
;
But
not
till
first
a
fencing
hedge
surrounds
Their
future
fields
,
and
the
enclosure
bounds
;
For
many
a
father
owns
a
hatchet
here
,
Which
falls
descending
to
his
wealthy
heir
.
The
playful
kid
we
from
the
pitfall
bring
,
O'erspread
with
earth
,
and
many
a
tempting
thing
;
Light
lay
the
branches
o'er
the
treacherous
deep
,
And
favourite
herbs
among
the
long
grass
creep
.
The
little
prisoner
soon
is
taught
to
stand
,
And
crop
the
food
from
the
betrayer's
hand
.
A
winter-store
now
rose
up
to
their
view
,
And
in
another
field
the
clover
grew
;
But
,
without
scythes
or
hooks
,
how
could
we
lay
The
ridgy
swathe
and
turn
it
into
hay
;
At
last
,
of
stone
we
form'd
a
sort
of
spade
,
Broad
at
the
end
,
and
sharp
,
for
cutting
made
;
We
push'd
along
,
the
tender
grass
gave
way
,
And
soon
the
sun
turn'd
every
pile
to
hay
.
It
was
not
long
before
the
flocks
increased
,
And
I
first
gave
the
unknown
milky
feast
.
Some
clay
I
found
,
and
useful
bowls
I
made
,
Tho'
,
I
must
own
,
I
marr'd
the
potter's
trade
;
Yet
use
is
every
thing
—
they
did
the
same
As
if
from
China
the
rude
vessels
came
.
The
curdling
cheese
I
taught
them
next
to
press
;
And
twirl'd
on
strings
the
roasting
meat
to
dress
.
In
all
the
woods
the
Indian
corn
was
found
,
Whose
grains
I
scatter'd
in
the
faithful
ground
;
The
willing
soil
leaves
little
here
to
do
,
Or
asks
the
furrows
of
the
searching
plough
;
Yet
something
like
one
with
delight
I
made
,
For
tedious
are
the
labours
of
the
spade
,
The
coulter
and
the
sock
were
pointed
stone
,
The
eager
brothers
drew
the
traces
on
,
I
stalk'd
behind
,
and
threw
the
faithful
grain
,
And
wooden
harrows
closed
the
earth
again
:
Soon
sprung
the
seed
,
and
soon
'twas
in
the
ear
,
Nor
wait
the
golden
sheaves
the
falling
year
;
In
this
vast
clime
two
harvests
lead
the
field
,
And
fifty
crops
th'
exhaustless
soil
can
yield
.
"
Some
bricks
I
burnt
,
and
now
a
house
arose
,
Finer
than
aught
the
Indian
chieftain
knows
;
A
wicker
door
,
with
clay-like
plaster
lin'd
,
Serv'd
to
exclude
the
piercing
wintry
wind
;
A
horn-glaz'd
window
gave
a
scanty
light
,
But
lamps
cheer'd
up
the
gloom
of
lengthen'd
night
;
The
cotton
shrub
through
all
the
woods
had
run
,
And
plenteous
wicks
our
rocks
and
spindles
spun
.
Around
their
fields
the
yam
I
taught
to
grow
,
With
all
the
fruits
they
either
love
or
know
.
The
bed
I
rais'd
from
the
damp
earth
,
and
now
Some
little
comfort
walk'd
our
dwelling
through
.
My
fame
was
spread
:
the
neighbouring
Indians
came
,
View'd
all
our
works
,
and
strove
to
do
the
same
.
The
wampum-belt
my
growing
fame
records
,
That
tells
great
actions
without
help
of
words
.
I
gain'd
much
honour
,
and
each
friend
would
bring
'Mong
various
presents
many
a
high-priz'd
thing
.
And
when
,
with
many
a
prayer
,
I
ask
once
more
To
seek
my
friends
,
and
wander
to
the
shore
,
They
all
consent
,
—
but
drop
a
sorrowing
tear
,
While
many
a
friend
his
load
of
skins
would
bear
.
Riches
were
mine
;
but
fate
will'd
it
not
They
grew
the
treasure
of
the
Spanish
foe
;
My
Indian
friends
threw
down
their
fleecy
load
,
And
,
like
the
bounding
elk
,
leap'd
back
into
the
wood
.
"
What
though
a
prisoner
!
countrymen
I
found
,
Heard
my
own
tongue
,
and
bless'd
the
cheerful
sound
;
It
seem'd
to
me
as
if
my
home
was
there
,
And
every
dearest
friend
would
soon
appear
.
At
length
a
cartel
gave
us
back
to
share
The
wounds
and
dangers
of
a
bloody
war
.
Peace
dawn'd
at
last
,
and
now
the
sails
were
spread
,
Some
climb
the
ship
unhurt
,
some
few
half
dead
.
Not
this
afflicts
the
gallant
soldier's
mind
,
What
is't
to
him
tho'
limbs
are
left
behind
!
Chelsea
a
crutch
and
bench
will
yet
supply
,
And
be
the
veteran's
dear
lost
limb
and
eye
!
"
When
English
ground
first
struck
the
sailor's
view
,
Huzza
!
for
England
,
roar'd
the
jovial
crew
.
The
waving
crutch
leaped
up
in
every
hand
,
While
one
poor
leg
was
left
alone
to
stand
;
The
very
name
another
limb
bestows
,
And
through
the
artery
the
blood
now
flows
.
We
reach'd
the
shore
,
and
kiss'd
the
much-lov'd
ground
,
And
fondly
fancied
friends
would
crowd
around
;
But
few
with
wretchedness
acquaintance
claim
,
And
little
pride
is
every
where
the
same
.
"
In
coming
down
,
the
seeing
eye
of
day
Darken'd
around
me
,
and
I
lost
my
way
.
Where'er
a
light
shot
glimmering
through
the
trees
,
I
thither
urg'd
my
weary
trembling
knees
,
Tapp'd
at
the
door
,
and
begg'd
,
in
piteous
tone
,
They'd
let
a
wandering
soldier
find
his
home
;
They
barr'd
the
door
,
and
bade
me
beg
elsewhere
,
They'd
no
spare
beds
for
vagabonds
to
share
.
This
was
the
tale
where'er
I
made
a
halt
,
And
greater
houses
grew
upon
the
fault
;
The
dog
was
loos'd
to
keep
me
far
at
bay
,
And
saucy
footmen
bade
me
walk
away
,
Or
else
a
constable
should
find
a
home
For
wandering
captains
from
the
wars
new
come
.
Alas
!
thought
I
,
is
this
the
soldier's
praise
For
loss
of
health
,
of
limb
,
and
length
of
days
?
And
is
this
England
?
—
England
,
my
delight
!
For
whom
I
thought
it
glory
but
to
fight
—
That
has
no
covert
for
the
soldier's
night
!
I
turn'd
half
fainting
,
led
through
all
the
gloom
By
the
faint
glimmerings
of
the
clouded
moon
.
One
path
I
kept
,
that
seem'd
at
times
to
end
,
And
oft
refus'd
the
guiding
clew
to
lend
;
The
thread
unhop'd
as
oft
again
I
found
,
Till
it
forsook
the
open
fields
around
;
By
slow
degrees
,
to
towering
woods
it
crept
,
As
if
beneath
their
shade
it
nightly
slept
.
I
here
had
halted
,
lest
some
beasts
of
prey
,
In
midnight
theft
,
had
pac'd
the
treacherous
way
,
But
that
a
twinkling
light
sometimes
appear'd
,
Sometimes
grew
dim
,
and
sometimes
brightly
clear'd
This
could
not
be
the
lure
of
beasts
of
prey
;
They
know
no
art
of
imitating
day
,
Much
pleas'd
I
thought
.
The
mazy
path
yet
led
Through
shrubby
copse
,
by
taller
trees
o'erspread
;
A
wimpling
rill
ran
on
,
and
wreath'd
its
way
Through
tufts
of
flowers
,
that
made
its
borders
gay
;
And
now
a
rock
the
parting
leaves
unfold
,
On
which
a
withering
oak
had
long
grown
old
,
The
curling
ivy
oft
attempts
to
hide
Its
sad
decay
,
with
robes
of
verdant
pride
,
Yet
through
her
leafy
garb
the
eye
can
peer
,
And
see
it
buys
the
youthful
dress
too
dear
.
A
hollow
cavern
now
methought
I
spied
,
Where
clustering
grapes
came
wandering
down
its
side
,
Between
whose
leaves
a
ray
of
light
would
dart
,
That
both
rejoic'd
and
terrified
my
heart
.
I
ventur'd
in
,
—
my
breath
I
scarcely
drew
,
Nought
save
a
taper
met
my
wondering
view
;
An
inner
cavern
beamed
with
fuller
light
,
And
gave
a
holy
hermit
to
my
sight
;
Himself
and
Piety
seem'd
but
the
same
,
And
Wisdom
for
grey
hairs
another
name
;
Some
traces
yet
of
sorrow
might
be
found
,
That
o'er
his
features
walk'd
their
pensive
round
;
Devotion
seem'd
to
bid
them
not
to
stray
,
But
human
feelings
gave
the
wanderers
way
.
His
eye
he
rais'd
from
the
instructive
page
,
An
eye
more
sunk
by
wearing
grief
than
age
;
Surprise
a
moment
o'er
his
features
spread
,
And
gave
them
back
their
once
accustom'd
red
.
"
"
Welcome
my
son
—
a
hermit's
welcome
share
,
And
let
the
welcome
mend
the
scanty
fare
.
A
soldier's
toils
the
softest
couch
requires
,
The
strengthening
food
,
and
renovating
fires
;
Not
such
the
hermit's
needy
cell
bestows
,
Pamper'd
alone
by
luxury
of
woes
,
The
falling
tears
bedew
the
crusty
bread
,
And
the
moss
pillow
props
the
weary
head
;
The
limpid
brook
the
heats
of
thirst
allay
,
And
gather'd
fruits
the
toilsome
search
repay
;
When
hunger
calls
,
these
are
a
feastful
store
,
And
languid
Sorrow
asks
for
nothing
more
;
Sufficient
that
her
eye
unseen
can
weep
,
Stream
while
awake
,
and
flow
yet
more
in
sleep
.
'Tis
now
twelve
years
since
Solitude
first
drew
Her
closing
curtain
round
my
opening
view
,
Since
first
I
left
my
once
delightful
home
,
Along
with
Grief
and
Solitude
to
roam
.
"
Much
I
express'd
my
wonder
,
how
a
mind
So
stor'd
as
his
could
herd
from
all
mankind
.
"
You
speak
,
"
he
said
,
"
like
one
whose
soul
is
free
,
Slave
to
no
wish
,
nor
chain'd
to
misery
.
When
ceaseless
anguish
clouds
the
summer's
sky
,
And
fairest
prospects
tarnish
in
the
eye
;
When
cheerful
scenes
spread
every
lure
in
vain
,
And
sweet
Society
but
adds
to
pain
;
When
weeping
Memory
incessant
brings
The
sad
reversion
of
all
former
things
,
And
show-like
Fancy
all
her
colouring
lends
,
To
gild
those
views
that
opened
with
our
friends
:
When
joyful
days
through
the
whole
year
would
run
,
And
Mirth
set
out
and
travel
with
the
sun
;
When
Youth
and
Pleasure
hand
in
hand
would
stray
,
And
every
month
was
little
less
than
May
;
When
changing
Fortune
shifts
th'
incessant
scene
,
And
only
points
to
where
our
joys
have
been
,
Is
it
a
wonder
from
the
world
we
run
,
And
all
its
fleeting
empty
pageants
shun
?
"
There
is
a
something
in
a
well
known
view
,
That
seems
to
shew
our
long
past
pleasures
through
;
Sure
in
the
eye
a
fairy
land
is
found
,
When
former
scenes
bring
former
friends
around
.
Let
but
the
woods
,
the
rocks
,
the
streams
appear
,
And
every
friend
you
see
and
think
you
hear
;
Their
words
,
their
dress
,
their
every
look
,
you
find
Swell
to
the
sight
,
and
burst
upon
the
mind
;
Though
many
a
spring
has
lent
the
blossom
gay
,
And
many
an
autumn
blown
the
leaf
away
,
Unchang'd
the
lasting
images
remain
,
Of
which
Remembrance
ever
holds
the
chain
.
E'en
the
mind's
eye
a
glassy
mirror
shews
,
And
far
too
deeply
her
bold
pencil
draws
;
The
life-like
pictures
rise
before
the
sight
,
Glow
through
the
day
,
and
sparkle
through
the
night
.
Ah
!
sure
e'en
now
my
Ethelind
appears
,
Though
dimly
seen
through
this
sad
vale
of
tears
.
That
winning
form
,
where
elegance
has
wove
The
thousand
softnesses
of
gentlest
love
;
That
meaning
eye
,
that
artless
blushing
cheek
,
Which
leaves
so
little
for
the
tongue
to
speak
;
The
nameless
graces
of
her
polish'd
mind
;
That
laughing
wit
,
and
serious
sense
refined
;
That
altogether
which
no
art
can
reach
,
And
which
'tis
nature's
very
rare
to
teach
;
That
nameless
something
which
pervades
the
soul
,
Wins
not
by
halves
,
but
captivates
the
whole
;
Yet
,
if
one
feature
shone
before
the
rest
,
'Twas
surely
Pity
by
Religion
drest
.
Have
I
not
seen
the
softly
stealing
tear
,
Hung
in
her
eye
,
like
gem
in
Ethiop's
ear
!
Whilst
the
dark
orb
the
glittering
diamond
shed
,
From
her
fair
cheek
the
frighten'd
roses
fled
,
Asham'd
that
,
such
a
gem
so
sweetly
clear
,
Aught
,
save
the
lily
,
should
presume
to
wear
.
"
Sure
there's
a
pleasure
in
recounting
woes
!
And
some
relief
in
every
tear
that
flows
!
Else
why
call
back
those
days
for
ever
flown
,
And
with
them
every
joy
this
heart
can
own
?
Pleasure
and
pain
is
the
sad
mixture
still
,
Taste
but
the
good
,
and
you
must
taste
the
ill
;
Dear
Recollection
is
a
sorceress
fair
That
brings
up
pleasures
livelier
than
they
were
;
Delighted
Fancy
dwells
upon
the
view
,
Compares
old
scenes
with
what
she
meets
with
new
;
The
present
hour
grows
dull
,
her
charms
decay
,
And
,
one
by
one
,
drop
silently
away
.
Neglect
succeeds
—
Neglect
,
the
worst
of
foes
,
That
married
love
or
single
friendship
knows
,
Whose
torpid
soul
congeal'd
in
stupor
lies
,
Nor
sees
one
charm
,
nor
hears
the
smothering
sighs
;
Sees
not
the
hourly
load
of
comforts
brought
By
fond
affection
,
watching
every
thought
,
Nor
the
heart
beating
with
the
wish
to
please
,
—
Cold
,
cold
Neglect
,
nor
hears
,
nor
feels
,
nor
sees
!
"
Thus
,
in
the
present
hour
too
,
oft
slides
by
The
many
a
charm
that
might
detain
the
eye
;
But
just
as
if
from
woes
we
could
not
part
,
We
veil
the
sight
,
and
close
shut
up
the
heart
;
So
I
myself
would
ne'er
forget
the
day
When
Ethelinda
vowed
her
heart
away
.
Our
births
were
equal
,
but
exalted
views
For
the
fair
daughter
bade
the
sire
refuse
.
O'er
seas
I
roam
,
in
quest
of
much-priz'd
wealth
,
Though
,
after
all
,
the
greatest
good
is
health
!
Where'er
I
roam'd
,
my
Ethelind
was
there
,
My
soul's
companion
join'd
me
every
where
;
Whatever
scenes
entrapped
my
travelling
eye
,
My
fancied
Ethelind
stood
smiling
by
,
Her
just
opinion
met
my
listening
ear
,
And
her
remarks
on
men
,
and
climes
,
I
hear
.
This
was
not
absence
,
or
it
was
a
dream
,
Which
,
though
unreal
,
yet
would
real
seem
.
Each
day
the
tongue-like
pen
some
story
told
,
Of
growing
love
,
or
less
increasing
gold
;
Yet
fortune
frown'd
not
;
and
,
in
lengthening
time
,
One
day
I
saw
that
mark'd
her
to
be
mine
.
Hail
!
heaven-taught
letters
,
that
through
years
convey
The
deathless
thought
,
as
if
just
breath'd
to-day
!
That
gives
the
converse
of
an
absent
friend
,
And
,
for
a
moment
,
makes
that
absence
end
;
For
,
while
the
eager
eyes
the
lines
run
o'er
,
Distance
steps
back
,
and
drags
the
chain
no
more
;
For
one
short
moment
the
dear
friends
we
see
Close
by
our
side
,
just
as
they
used
to
be
.
Such
sweet
delusions
are
not
form'd
to
last
,
And
Fancy's
visions
far
too
soon
are
past
.
No
such
delights
my
heart-wrote
lines
attend
,
They
met
the
hand
of
a
deceitful
friend
;
Her
brother
,
anxious
for
a
lord's
success
,
Thought
it
no
sin
to
blast
my
happiness
,
Kept
up
my
letters
,
and
base
stories
told
,
That
I
had
sold
myself
to
age
,
and
gold
.
Her
good
opinion
baffled
long
the
tale
,
And
love
for
long
kept
down
the
struggling
scale
.
But
when
,
from
year
to
year
,
Hope
pointed
on
,
And
the
last
hope
with
the
last
year
was
gone
,
She
tried
to
think
I
must
be
base
,
and
strove
To
scorn
the
man
who
could
give
up
her
love
;
Yet
her
soft
heart
no
other
flame
confessed
,
It
lodged
the
tenant
of
her
faithful
breast
.
"
Home
I
return'd
,
much
wearied
out
with
woes
,
And
every
fear
that
fretful
silence
knows
.
Fear
for
her
death
was
far
my
greatest
dread
;
How
could
I
bear
to
think
her
with
the
dead
!
Did
she
but
live
,
methought
my
griefs
might
end
,
When
the
warm
lover
cool'd
into
the
friend
.
I
reach'd
my
home
,
and
quick
inquiries
made
,
Found
her
unmarried
—
found
she
was
not
dead
.
And
now
,
to
know
the
cause
of
all
my
woe
,
With
hope
and
fear
,
and
joy
,
and
grief
,
I
go
;
A
thousand
fears
would
stop
me
in
my
way
,
A
thousand
hopes
forbid
one
moment's
stay
.
As
nigh
the
house
with
anxious
step
I
drew
,
Fond
recollections
crowded
all
the
view
;
I
felt
a
tear
creep
round
and
round
my
eye
,
That
shame
of
man
,
and
yet
I
know
not
why
.
While
at
the
door
her
faithful
maid
I
saw
,
The
short
quick
breath
I
scarce
had
power
to
draw
;
Where
—
is
—
your
la
—
my
lips
no
more
would
move
.
"
She's
in
the
arbour
,
sir
,
you
us'd
to
love
.
"
"
Something
like
hope
a
cordial
drop
bestow'd
,
The
heart
grew
warm
,
and
the
pale
cheek
now
glow'd
.
Near
to
the
arbour
silently
I
drew
,
And
trembling
look'd
the
leafy
lattice
through
;
The
sprightly
air
which
once
lit
up
her
face
,
To
pensive
softness
long
had
given
place
;
Its
gentle
charms
around
her
features
crowd
,
And
tenderest
feeling
her
fine
figure
bow'd
;
More
dear
she
seem'd
,
more
interesting
far
,
Than
when
her
eye
was
call'd
the
evening
star
;
On
her
fair
hand
she
lean'd
her
drooping
head
,
And
many
a
tear
bedew'd
the
page
she
read
;
'Twas
Milton's
Paradise
—
the
book
I
knew
,
Once
my
own
profile
on
the
leaf
I
drew
,
And
wrote
beneath
this
truth-dictated
line
—
'
With
thee
conversing
I
forget
all
time
;
'
Her
eye
I
saw
ran
every
feature
o'er
,
And
scann'd
the
line
where
truth
seem'd
writ
no
more
;
She
shook
her
head
,
its
meaning
well
I
knew
:
"
'Twas
even
thus
,
ye
once
lov'd
lines
adieu
;
"
The
book
she
shut
—
so
softly
was
it
clos'd
,
As
if
life's
joys
alone
were
there
repos'd
.
"
I
walk'd
around
,
the
crimping
grass
would
say
,
—
Some
heavy
foot
has
brush'd
our
dews
away
;
She
started
up
,
and
,
shaking
off
the
tear
,
Strove
hard
to
make
the
pearl-set
eye
more
clear
;
But
when
my
form
the
parting
leaves
betray'd
,
And
fuller
light
around
my
features
play'd
,
She
grows
a
statue
,
wrought
by
Michael's
art
,
A
marble
figure
,
with
a
human
heart
,
More
pale
,
more
cold
,
than
Medici
can
seem
,
Or
all
the
forms
that
from
the
quarry
teem
.
I
bow'd
,
but
spoke
not
,
injur'd
as
I
thought
,
And
wishing
much
to
show
the
sense
I
ought
;
I
durst
not
trust
th'
impatient
tongue
to
move
,
For
,
ah
!
I
felt
it
would
but
talk
of
love
.
I
silent
stand
.
"
"
What
art
thou
,
vision
,
say
,
Why
dost
thou
cross
a
wretched
wanderer's
way
?
Sure
'tis
the
whimsy
of
a
feverish
mind
That
fancies
forms
none
but
itself
can
find
!
"
"
I
bow'd
again
.
"
"
Oh
!
speak
if
thou
art
he
That
once
was
dear
—
so
very
dear
to
me
?
"
"
Yes
,
Ethelind
,
most
sure
—
too
sure
I'm
he
That
once
was
dear
,
so
very
dear
to
thee
;
Why
has
thy
heart
its
fondness
all
forborne
To
swell
my
sails
,
and
ask
my
quick
return
?
"
"
A
married
man
!
—
she
sharply
made
reply
,
"
With
much
resentment
sparkling
in
her
eye
,
—
"
A
married
man
has
every
right
to
hear
What
thoughts
pursue
us
through
the
changing
year
!
Yes
,
I
will
tell
you
:
happy
was
the
day
In
which
you
gave
your
heart
and
hand
away
.
I
gave
not
mine
,
yet
free
from
every
vow
That
would
have
tied
me
to
a
wretch
like
you
.
I
feel
as
blissful
in
my
single
state
,
As
you
,
no
doubt
,
feel
in
your
wealthy
mate
!
"
She
rose
to
go
:
"
My
Ethelind
,
forbear
!
Some
cruel
monster
has
abus'd
your
ear
;
Your
faithful
lover
see
before
you
stand
,
Your
faithful
lover
dares
to
claim
your
hand
;
No
other
vows
that
plighted
faith
could
stain
,
No
other
loves
melt
o'er
this
heart
again
!
Let
easy
fortune
nameless
comforts
spread
,
And
slope
for
life
the
soft
descending
tread
.
No
needful
cares
,
to
study
how
the
year
Shall
rule
its
squares
,
and
run
its
circles
clear
;
The
generous
hand
no
close
restraint
shall
know
,
But
opening
bounty
from
the
fingers
flow
.
The
saddest
sight
the
pitying
eyes
receive
,
Is
to
see
wretchedness
with
nought
to
give
;
The
heart-wrung
tear
,
though
e'er
so
fully
shed
,
Brings
no
warm
clothing
,
and
affords
no
bread
.
On
you
shall
pleasure
wait
with
ready
call
,
Speed
to
the
play
,
or
hasten
to
the
ball
;
Where
safest
ease
her
flowery
carpet
throws
,
And
gilded
domes
their
rainbow-lights
dispose
;
Where
splendour
turns
e'en
common
things
to
show
,
And
plain
good
comforts
ornamental
grow
.
'Midst
scenes
like
these
would
Ethelinda
blaze
,
While
wreathing
diamonds
lend
their
mingling
rays
;
Wealth
is
her
own
,
for
it
is
mine
to
give
,
As
it
is
hers
,
to
bid
me
how
to
live
.
But
should
domestic
peace
her
soul
allure
,
For
splendour
but
hides
grief
,
it
cannot
cure
,
—
If
in
sweet
converse
hours
should
steal
away
,
While
we
still
wander
at
the
close
of
day
;
If
every
wish
preventing
love
should
see
,
And
all
the
world
we
to
ourselves
should
be
,
I
only
wait
the
soft
assenting
smile
,
To
be
whate'er
her
heart
would
ask
the
while
;
O
yes
,
dear
friend
!
I
yet
can
read
the
line
,
'
With
thee
conversing
I
forget
all
time
;
'
Domestic
peace
has
every
charm
for
me
,
How
doubly
charming
when
enjoy'd
with
thee
!
"
Now
honour
pleaded
that
my
fame
should
bleed
.
And
life
is
rul'd
by
her
detested
creed
;
This
idol
,
honour
,
at
whose
shrine
appears
The
heart-broke
friend
,
dissolv'd
in
endless
tears
.
He
,
fiery
youth
,
impatient
of
control
,
And
the
grey
veteran
sorry
from
his
soul
,
Th'
injuring
and
the
injur'd
both
repair
,
And
both
expect
her
laurel
wreath
to
wear
;
It
matters
not
where
right
or
wrong
began
,
The
man
who
fights
must
be
an
honest
man
,
Though
every
baseness
that
the
heart
can
know
Should
damp
his
soul
,
and
keep
his
sword
in
awe
;
Sole
proof
of
excellence
such
warriors
give
—
Wretches
who
die
,
because
they
dare
not
live
!
The
guilty
breast
is
ever
up
in
arms
,
And
the
least
look
the
conscious
soul
alarms
!
Should
your
quick
eye
the
shuffling
card
detect
,
Or
should
the
gamester
think
you
but
suspect
,
His
injur'd
honour
dares
you
to
the
fight
,
And
all
the
world
admits
the
challenge
right
!
Not
to
accept
it
blasts
a
virtuous
fame
,
And
links
your
memory
with
eternal
shame
;
It
matters
not
though
pure
your
life
appears
On
the
long
record
of
revolving
years
;
Though
heaven
you
fear
,
arid
heaven's
forbidding
law
,
That
stamps
him
criminal
who
dares
to
draw
,
Yet
man
,
vain
man
,
breaks
through
the
laws
of
heaven
,
Dies
by
the
sword
,
and
hopes
to
be
forgiven
;
For
what
we
duels
from
high
fashion
call
,
Is
Suicide
,
or
Murder
,
after
all
!
"
Sometimes
the
heart
almost
approves
the
deed
,
When
barbarous
wounds
make
reputation
bleed
;
Of
all
the
crimes
of
any
shape
or
dye
,
That
looks
the
blackest
in
true
feeling's
eye
,
If
a
dear
sister's
purity
we
feel
,
Nature
cries
out
—
where
is
th'
avenging
steel
?
Avenging
steel
!
how
impotent
the
word
,
And
all
the
threats
and
cures
that
tend
the
sword
!
"
Sweet
Reputation
,
like
a
lily
fair
,
Scents
every
breath
that
winnows
through
the
air
;
The
colouring
sunbeam
on
its
whiteness
plays
,
And
dances
round
and
round
with
gilding
rays
;
Anon
dark
clouds
these
gilding
rays
withhold
,
And
the
leaf
shrivels
with
the
sudden
cold
;
A
blighting
vapour
sails
along
the
skies
,
And
the
meek
lily
droops
its
head
,
and
dies
:
Nor
can
a
sword
,
or
the
depending
pen
,
Clear
the
lost
female
character
again
;
The
vindication
better
never
hear
,
—
That
fame
is
safest
that
has
nought
to
clear
;
And
female
fame
is
such
a
tender
flower
,
It
cannot
even
bear
a
pitying
shower
;
Courage
in
man
is
something
near
as
nice
,
Which
life
must
buy
,
and
wear
at
any
price
.
"
Much
'gainst
my
conscience
,
and
against
heaven's
law
,
My
destin'd
brother
to
account
I
draw
;
Against
his
life
I
meant
no
hand
to
rear
,
—
I
meant
but
with
the
world
to
settle
clear
;
A
self-defense
,
e'en
in
th'
appointed
field
,
Was
all
the
sword
I
ever
thought
to
wield
.
Hard
was
the
onset
;
in
the
fatal
strife
His
hand
I
saw
aim'd
only
at
my
life
;
I
wav'd
its
point
,
still
hoping
to
disarm
,
And
guard
both
lives
secure
from
every
harm
.
I
parried
long
;
he
made
a
lounging
stroke
,
And
my
sad
weapon
in
his
bosom
broke
.
"
"
'Tis
past
he
said
—
much
injur'd
man
,
adieu
!
I've
done
you
wrong
—
but
you'll
forgive
it
now
.
"
"
In
that
sad
moment
every
pang
I
found
That
darts
through
father's
,
brother's
,
sister's
,
wound
!
In
what
new
lights
I
then
saw
Honour's
creed
,
How
sunk
in
sin
seem'd
the
detested
deed
;
The
world's
applause
was
stripped
of
all
its
charms
,
And
the
whole
Conscience
met
the
Man
in
arms
,
Guilt
,
sorrow
,
pity
,
warr'd
within
the
breast
,
With
sad
remorse
,
that
never
can
have
rest
.
My
weeping
Ethelind
now
,
too
,
I
saw
,
Lost
in
the
floods
of
never
ending
woe
!
For
,
ah
!
what
woes
can
ever
hope
an
end
That
mourn
a
brother
slaughter'd
by
a
friend
!
Then
from
his
breast
some
brief
,
brief
lines
he
drew
,
—
The
blots
were
many
,
though
the
words
were
few
:
"
"
Fly
me
,
for
ever
,
it
is
time
we
part
,
You've
kill'd
a
brother
,
and
you've
broke
a
heart
.
"
"
Tortur'd
in
soul
from
place
to
place
I
flew
,
But
swift-wing'd
thought
as
swiftly
would
pursue
;
Unless
from
memory
our
thoughts
can
run
,
How
vain
to
journey
round
and
round
the
sun
.
At
last
this
solitude
my
sorrow
sought
,
For
cities
leave
no
bar
for
entering
thought
;
I
here
have
liv'd
,
in
hopes
the
time
will
come
,
That
makes
my
cell
my
wish'd-for
silent
tomb
.
"
"
His
tears
fresh
flow'd
,
and
mine
ran
down
my
cheek
,
Our
griefs
were
such
as
neither
tongue
could
speak
;
At
last
we
parted
—
he
to
endless
woe
,
While
happy
I
to
wife
and
children
go
.
"
Now
scolding
Nancy
to
the
ale-house
flies
—
"
What
are
you
doing
—
hearing
Harry's
lies
!
Thomas
,
get
in
,
and
do
not
sit
to
drink
,
There's
work
enough
at
home
,
if
you
would
think
!
"
And
now
the
sisters
take
their
evening
walk
;
One
fam'd
for
goodness
,
and
one
fam'd
for
joke
,
For
physic
,
too
,
some
little
is
renown'd
,
With
every
salve
that
loves
to
heal
the
wound
;
The
pulse
she
feels
with
true
mysterious
air
,
While
Mrs
Graham
of
strengthening
broths
takes
care
.
That
sickness
must
be
hopeless
of
all
end
,
Which
her
good
home-made
wine
no
way
can
mend
;
The
brother
then
his
skill
of
medicine
tries
,
And
rarely
in
his
hands
the
lingering
patient
dies
.
Now
the
white
owl
flits
o'er
the
dusky
ground
,
Foreruns
the
night
,
and
makes
his
trumpet
sound
.
The
winds
are
lull'd
asleep
,
and
now
you
hear
The
murmuring
stream
hum
slumber
in
your
ear
.
Sweet
Row
,
flow
on
,
and
be
thy
little
vale
The
future
glory
of
the
happy
tale
;
Long
be
thy
banks
bespread
as
they
are
now
With
nibbling
sheep
,
or
richer
feeding
cow
;
With
rock
,
and
scar
,
and
cottage
on
the
hill
,
With
curling
smoke
,
and
busy
useful
mill
;
Long
may
yon
trees
afford
their
leafy
screen
,
And
long
from
winter
save
the
fading
green
;
In
every
season
in
their
speckled
pride
,
Safe
may
the
trout
through
all
thy
windings
glide
;
Safe
may
the
fowl
adown
thy
waters
swim
,
Bathe
the
webb'd
foot
,
or
o'er
thy
mirror
skim
,
Nor
yet
the
schoolboy
cast
the
deadly
stone
,
And
take
that
life
,
no
frailer
than
his
own
;
For
peace
and
plenty
,
and
the
cheerful
tale
,
For
happy
wives
,
for
mirth
,
and
honest
ale
,
For
maidens
fair
,
and
swains
of
matchless
truth
,
And
all
the
openness
of
artless
youth
,
Whene'er
a
Cumbrian
Village
shall
be
fam'd
,
Let
Stoklewath
be
not
the
last
that's
nam'd
!