Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound; Her cabin'd, ample spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath; The vasty hall of death. 10 15 M. ARNOLD. 371 THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 'There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extravagant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while well exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had formerly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others: that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.'-GLANVIL'S Vanity of Dogmatizing, 1661. Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill! No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, 6 And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green, Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest! 10 Here, where the reaper was at work of late- use Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn— All the live murmur of a summer's day. 15 20 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field And here till sun-down, shepherd, will I be! Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep ; 25 And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. 32 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book- His friends, and went to learn the gipsy lore, hood, 38 And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. But once, years after, in the country-lanes, 43 46 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired The workings of men's brains ; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. And I,' he said, 'the secret of their art, When fully learn'd, will to the world impart ; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill! This said, he left them, and return'd no more.— But rumours hung about the country-side 52 56 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, The same the gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring ; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering, But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly ;And I myself seem half to know thy looks, 60 And put the shepherds, wanderer, on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; 66 Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-muffied Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground! 71 Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, 76 Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the punt's rope chops round; And leaning backward in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream! And then they land, and thou art seen no more! Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store 85 Of flowers-the frail-leaf'd, white anemone, Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves— But none has words she can report of thee. 90 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, 95 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted airBut, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone! 100 At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, 106 Through the long dewy grass move slow away. In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley-wood, Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 111 Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of grey, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly 116 The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all! So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, 121 Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, 126 The line of festal light in Christ-Church hallThen sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. 130 But what I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, grave 136 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave-Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. 140 -No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls; "Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, 145 |