As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.”
”On good service we are going
Life to risk by sea and land;
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day; 30
Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee!”
”Fear not,” quickly answer’d Hubert;
”As I am thy Father’s son,
What thou askest, noble Brother,
With God’s favour shall be done.”
So were both right well content:
From the Castle forth they went.
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40
Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour fam’d)
And where’er their strokes alighted
There the Saracens were tam’d.
Whence, then, could it come the thought,
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
His Brother’s life, for Land’s and Castle’s sake?
”Sir!” the Ruffians said to Hubert,
”Deep he lies in Jordan flood.” — 50
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
”Take your earnings.” — Oh! that I
Could have seen my Brother die!
It was a pang that vex’d him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.
Months pass’d on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steer’d. 60
To his Castle Hubert sped;
He has nothing now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.
None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly; 70
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.
Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And, while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was utter’d from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80
’Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown
He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodg’d, and thou be Lord.
Speak! astounded Hubert cannot;
And if power to speak he had, 90
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
’Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living Man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a Postern-gate he slunk away.
Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, ask’d forgiveness,
Ask’d it by a Brother’s name, 100
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiv’n:
Then in a Convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.
But Sir Eustace, whom good Angels
Had preserv’d from Murderers’ hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Liv’d with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw Sons of theirs:
And through ages, Heirs of Heirs, 110
A long posterity renown’d,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.
THE AFFLICTION of MARGARET — — OF — —
Where art thou, my beloved Son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh find me prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
That I may rest; and neither blame,
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas, to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despair’d, and have believ’d, 10
And be for evermore beguil’d;
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them, and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base; 20
And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the Young One dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest scream,
Heard by his Mother unawares!
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a Mother bring distress;
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no I suffer’d long
From that ill thought; and being blind, 30
Said, “Pride shall help me in my wrong;
Kind mother have I been, as kind
As ever breathed:” and that is true;
I’ve wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother’s door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes; 40
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune with her gifts and lies
Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,
And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;
They mount, how short a voyage brings
The Wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50
Maim’d, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a Desart thrown
Inheritest the Lion’s Den;
Or hast been summoned to the Deep,
Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I look for Ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; ‘tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead; 60
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of Him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind. 70
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my Son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend.
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES
That way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby show!
See the Kitten on the Wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Wither’d leaves, one, two, and three,
From the lofty Elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think, 10
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf convey’d
Sylph or Faery hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
— But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts;
First at one and then it’s fellow
Just as light and just as yellow; 20
There are many now — now one —
Now they stop; and there are none —
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian Conjuror; 30
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics play’d in the eye
Of a thousand Standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the Crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure! 40
’Tis a pretty Baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:
Here, for neither Babe or me,
Other Play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings,
(In the sun or under shade
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings, 50
Made this Orchard’s narrow space,
And this Vale so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in Bands
Travell’d into distant Lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood,
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship, 60
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside,
— Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree,
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out,
Hung with head towards the ground,
Flutter’d, perch’d; into a round 70
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin,
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen,
Light of heart, and light of limb,
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in it’s prime,
They are sober’d by this time.
If you look to vale or hill, 80
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring Rill;
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitters hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy: 90
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?
Yet, whate’er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every Creature,
Whatsoe’er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show, 100
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,
Spreads with such a living grace
O’er my little Laura’s face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair! 110
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
— Pleas’d by any random toy;
By a Kitten’s busy joy,
Or an infant’s laughing eye
Sharing in the extacy; 120
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take
Even from things by sorrow wrought
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life’s falling Leaf.
THE SEVEN SISTERS, OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE
Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All Children of one Mother:
I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other,
A Garland of seven Lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the Wars so well.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, 10
The Solitude of Binnorie!
Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,
Across the wave, a Rover brave
To Binnorie is steering:
Right onward to the Scottish strand
The gallant ship is borne;
The Warriors leap upon the land,
And hark! the Leader of the Band
Hath blown his bugle horn. 20
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
Beside a Grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like Fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of Man and Steed,
Away they fly to left to right —
Of your fair household, Father Knight, 30
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over Hill and Hollow,
With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful Rovers follow.
Cried they, “Your Father loves to roam:
Enough for him to find
The empty House when he comes home; 40
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!”
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run, and cry, “Nay let us die,
And let us d
ie together.”
A Lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never Foot had been; 50
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plung’d into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
The Stream that flows out of the Lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o’er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare, 60
Have risen from out the deep:
The Fishers say, those Sisters fair
By Faeries are all buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully
The Solitude of Binnorie.
To H. C.,
SIX YEARS OLD
O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou Faery Voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy Boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; 10
O blessed Vision! happy Child!
That art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with, many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And grief, uneasy Lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
Oh! too industrious folly!
Oh! vain and causeless melancholy! 20
Nature will either end thee quite;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young Lamb’s heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast Thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of tomorrow?
Thou art a Dew-drop, which, the morn brings forth,
Not doom’d to jostle with unkindly shocks;
Or to be trail’d along the soiling earth;
A Gem that glitters while it lives, 30
And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN
Among all lovely things my Love had been;
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
A Glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.
While riding near her home one stormy night
A single Glow-worm did I chance to espy;
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
And from my Horse I leapt; great joy had I.
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 43
