Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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 chuse your time

  The mountain when to cross.

  For oft there sits, between the heap

  That’s like an infant’s grave in size,

  And that same pond of which I spoke,

  A woman in a scarlet cloak,

  And to herself she cries,

  “Oh misery! oh misery!

  “Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

  VII.

  At all times of the day and night

  This wretched woman thither goes,

  And she is known to every star,

  And every wind that blows;

  And there beside the thorn she sits

  When the blue day-light’s in the skies,

  And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

  Or frosty air is keen and still,

  And to herself she cries,

  “Oh misery! oh misery!

  “Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

  VIII.

  “Now wherefore thus, by day and night,

  “In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

  “Thus to the dreary mountain-top

  “Does this poor woman go?

  “And why sits she beside the thorn

  “When the blue day-light’s in the sky,

  “Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

  “Or frosty air is keen and still,

  “And wherefore does she cry? —

  “Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why

  “Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

  IX.

  I cannot tell; I wish I could;

  For the true reason no one knows,

  But if you’d gladly view the spot,

  The spot to which she goes;

  The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,

  The pond — and thorn, so old and grey,

  Pass by her door — ’tis seldom shut —

  And if you see her in her hut,

  Then to the spot away! —

  I never heard of such as dare

  Approach the spot when she is there.

  X.

  “But wherefore to the mountain-top

  “Can this unhappy woman go,

  “Whatever star is in the skies,

  “Whatever wind may blow?”

  Nay rack your brain — ’tis all in vain,

  I’ll tell you every thing I know;

  But to the thorn, and to the pond

  Which is a little step beyond,

  I wish that you would go:

  Perhaps when you are at the place

  You something of her tale may trace.

  XI.

  I’ll give you the best help I can:

  Before you up the mountain go,

  Up to the dreary mountain-top,

  I’ll tell you all I know.

  Tis now some two and twenty years,

  Since she (her name is Martha Ray)

  Gave with a maiden’s true good will

  Her company to Stephen Hill;

  And she was blithe and gay,

  And she was happy, happy still

  Whene’er she thought of Stephen Hill.

  XII.

  And they had fix’d the wedding-day,

  The morning that must wed them both;

  But Stephen to another maid

  Had sworn another oath;

  And with this other maid to church

  Unthinking Stephen went —

  Poor Martha! on that woful day

  A cruel, cruel fire, they say,

  Into her bones was sent:

  It dried her body like a cinder,

  And almost turn’d her brain to tinder.

  XIII.

  They say, full six months after this,

  While yet the summer-leaves were green,

  She to the mountain-top would go,

  And there was often seen.

  ‘Tis said, a child was in her womb,

  As now to any eye was plain;

  She was with child, and she was mad,

  Yet often she was sober sad

  From her exceeding pain.

  Oh me! ten thousand times I’d rather

  That he had died, that cruel father!

  XIV.

  Sad case for such a brain to hold

  Communion with a stirring child!

  Sad case, as you may think, for one

  Who had a brain so wild!

  Last Christmas when we talked of this,

  Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,

  That in her womb the infant wrought

  About its mother’s heart, and brought

  Her senses back again:

  And when at last her time drew near,

  Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

  XV.

  No more I know, I wish I did,

  And I would tell it all to you;

  For what became of this poor child

  There’s none that ever knew:

  And if a child was born or no,

  There’s no one that could ever tell;

  And if ‘twas born alive or dead,

  There’s no one knows, as I have said,

  But some remember well,

  That Martha Ray about this time

  Would up the mountain often climb.

  XVI.

  And all that winter, when at night

  The wind blew from the mountain-peak,

  ‘Twas worth your while, though in the dark,

  The church-yard path to seek:

  For many a time and oft were heard

  Cries coming from the mountain-head,

  Some plainly living voices were,

  And others, I’ve heard many swear,

  Were voices of the dead:

  I cannot think, whate’er they say,

  They had to do with Martha Ray.

  XVII.

  But that she goes to this old thorn,

  The thorn which I’ve described to you,

  And there sits in a scarlet cloak,

  I will be sworn is true.

  For one day with my telescope,

  To view the ocean wide and bright,

  When to this country first I came,

  Ere I had heard of Martha’s name,

  I climbed the mountain’s height:

  A storm came on, and I could see

  No object higher than my knee.

  XVIII.

  ‘Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,

  No screen, no fence could I discover,

  And then the wind! in faith, it was

  A wind full ten times over.

  I looked around, I thought I saw

  A jutting crag, and oft’ I ran,

  Head-foremost, through the driving rain,

  The shelter of the crag to gain,

  And, as I am a man,

  Instead of jutting crag, I found

  A woman seated on the ground.

  XIX.

  I did not speak — I saw her face,

  Her face it was enough for me;

  I turned about and heard her cry,

  “O misery! O misery!”

  And there she sits, until the moon

  Through half the clear blue sky will go,

  And when the little breezes make

  The waters of the pond to shake,

  As all the country know,

  She shudders and you hear her cry,

  “Oh misery! oh misery!

  XX.

  “But what’s the thorn? and what’s the pond?

  “And what’s the hill of moss to her?

  “And what’s the creeping breeze that comes />
  “The little pond to stir?”

  I cannot tell; but some will say

  She hanged her baby on the tree,

  Some say she drowned it in the pond,

  Which is a little step beyond,

  But all and each agree,

  The little babe was buried there,

  Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

  XXI.

  I’ve heard the scarlet moss is red

  With drops of that poor infant’s blood;

  But kill a new-born infant thus!

  I do not think she could.

  Some say, if to the pond you go,

  And fix on it a steady view,

  The shadow of a babe you trace,

  A baby and a baby’s face,

  And that it looks at you;

  Whene’er you look on it, ‘tis plain

  The baby looks at you again.

  XXII.

  And some had sworn an oath that she

  Should be to public justice brought;

  And for the little infant’s bones

  With spades they would have sought.

  But then the beauteous hill of moss

  Before their eyes began to stir;

  And for full fifty yards around,

  The grass it shook upon the ground;

  But all do still aver

  The little babe is buried there,

  Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

  XXIII.

  I cannot tell how this may be,

  But plain it is, the thorn is bound

  With heavy tufts of moss, that strive

  To drag it to the ground.

  And this I know, full many a time,

  When she was on the mountain high,

  By day, and in the silent night,

  When all the stars shone clear and bright,

  That I have heard her cry,

  “Oh misery! oh misery!

  “O woe is me! oh misery!”

  THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

  In distant countries I have been,

  And yet I have not often seen

  A healthy man, a man full grown

  Weep in the public roads alone.

  But such a one, on English ground,

  And in the broad high-way, I met;

  Along the broad high-way he came,

  His cheeks with tears were wet.

  Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;

  And in his arms a lamb he had.

  He saw me, and he turned aside,

  As if he wished himself to hide:

  Then with his coat he made essay

  To wipe those briny tears away.

  I follow’d him, and said, “My friend

  “What ails you? wherefore weep you so?”

  — ”Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,

  He makes my tears to flow.

  To-day I fetched him from the rock;

  He is the last of all my flock.

  When I was young, a single man.

  And after youthful follies ran,

  Though little given to care and thought,

  Yet, so it was, a ewe I bought;

  And other sheep from her I raised,

  As healthy sheep as you might see,

  And then I married, and was rich

  As I could wish to be;

  Of sheep I number’d a full score,

  And every year encreas’d my store.

  Year after year my stock it grew,

  And from this one, this single ewe,

  Full fifty comely sheep I raised,

  As sweet a flock as ever grazed!

  Upon the mountain did they feed;

  They throve, and we at home did thrive.

  — This lusty lamb of all my store

  Is all that is alive:

  And now I care not if we die,

  And perish all of poverty.

  Ten children, Sir! had I to feed,

  Hard labour in a time of need!

  My pride was tamed, and in our grief,

  I of the parish ask’d relief.

  They said I was a wealthy man;

  My sheep upon the mountain fed,

  And it was fit that thence I took

  Whereof to buy us bread:”

  “Do this; how can we give to you,”

  They cried, “what to the poor is due?”

  I sold a sheep as they had said,

  And bought my little children bread,

  And they were healthy with their food;

  For me it never did me good.

  A woeful time it was for me,

  To see the end of all my gains,

  The pretty flock which I had reared

  With all my care and pains,

  To see it melt like snow away!

  For me it was a woeful day.

  Another still! and still another!

  A little lamb, and then its mother!

  It was a vein that never stopp’d,

  Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp’d.

  Till thirty were not left alive

  They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

  And I may say that many a time

  I wished they all were gone:

  They dwindled one by one away;

  For me it was a woeful day.

  To wicked deeds I was inclined,

  And wicked fancies cross’d my mind,

  And every man I chanc’d to see,

  I thought he knew some ill of me

  No peace, no comfort could I find,

  No ease, within doors or without,

  And crazily, and wearily,

  I went my work about.

  Oft-times I thought to run away;

  For me it was a woeful day.

  Sir! ‘twas a precious flock to me,

  As dear as my own children be;

  For daily with my growing store

  I loved my children more and more.

  Alas! it was an evil time;

  God cursed me in my sore distress,

  I prayed, yet every day I thought

  I loved my children less;

  And every week, and every day,

  My flock, it seemed to melt away.

  They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!

  From ten to five, from five to three,

  A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;

  And then at last, from three to two;

  And of my fifty, yesterday

  I had but only one,

  And here it lies upon my arm,

  Alas! and I have none;

  To-day I fetched it from the rock;

  It is the last of all my flock.”

  THE DUNGEON. (COLERIDGE)

  By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  And this place our forefathers made for man!

  This is the process of our love and wisdom,

  To each poor brother who offends against us —

  Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty?

  Is this the only cure? Merciful God?

  Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up

  By ignorance and parching poverty,

  His energies roll back upon his heart,

  And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,

  They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;

  Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks —

  And this is their best cure! uncomforted

  And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,

  And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

  Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,

  By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies

  Circled with evil, till his very soul

  Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed

  By sights of ever more deformity!

  With other ministrations thou, O nature!

  Healest thy wandering and distempered child:

  Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,

  Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,

  Thy melodies o
f woods, and winds, and waters,

  Till he relent, and can no more endure

  To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,

  Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;

  But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,

  His angry spirit healed and harmonized

  By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

  THE MAD MOTHER.

  Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,

  The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,

  Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,

  And she came far from over the main.

  She has a baby on her arm,

  Or else she were alone;

  And underneath the hay-stack warm,

  And on the green-wood stone,

  She talked and sung the woods among;

  And it was in the English tongue.

  “Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,

  But nay, my heart is far too glad;

  And I am happy when I sing

  Full many a sad and doleful thing:

  Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

  I pray thee have no fear of me,

  But, safe as in a cradle, here

  My lovely baby! thou shalt be,

  To thee I know too much I owe;

  I cannot work thee any woe.

  A fire was once within my brain;

  And in my head a dull, dull pain;

  And fiendish faces one, two, three,

  Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.

  But then there came a sight of joy;

  It came at once to do me good;

  I waked, and saw my little boy,

  My little boy of flesh and blood;

  Oh joy for me that sight to see!

  For he was here, and only he.

  Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

  It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

  Thy lips I feel them, baby! they

  Draw from my heart the pain away.

  Oh! press me with thy little hand;

  It loosens something at my chest;

  About that tight and deadly band

  I feel thy little fingers press’d.

  The breeze I see is in the tree;

  It comes to cool my babe and me.

  Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

  Thou art thy mother’s only joy;

  And do not dread the waves below,

  When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;

  The high crag cannot work me harm,

  Nor leaping torrents when they howl;

  The babe I carry on my arm,

  He saves for me my precious soul;

  Then happy lie, for blest am I;

  Without me my sweet babe would die.

  Then do not fear, my boy! for thee

  Bold as a lion I will be;

  And I will always be thy guide,

  Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

  I’ll build an Indian bower; I know

  The leaves that make the softest bed:

  And if from me thou wilt not go,

  But still be true ‘till I am dead,

  My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,