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Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime,
Apart from happy Ghosts—that gather flowers
of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellesport (such faith was entertained)
A koot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever, when such stature they had gained
That llium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and Lliglit!

« 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 shows 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
As merry as the birds in spring.

« Thy Father cares not for my breast, *T is thine, sweet Baby, there to rest; 'Tis all thine own!-and, if its hue Be changed, that was so fair to view, 'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove! My beauty, little Child, is flown; But thou wilt live with me in love, And what if my poor cheek be brown? 'Tis well for me, thou canst not see Ilow pale and wan it else would be.

Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows 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,
Apd on the green-wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the Eoglish 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 dolcful 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 breast, 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 bere, and only he.
« Suck, little Babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain :
Thy lips I feel them, Baby! they
Druw 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 prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree;

k comes to cool my Babe and me. 'For the account of these long-lived trees, seo Pliny's Natural flictory. lib. 16, cap. 46; and for the features in the character of Protesilaus (page 89) see the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides.Virgil placez ibe Shade of Laodamia is a mournful region, among subapry Lovers,

His Laodamia

« Dread not their taunts, my little life;
I am thy Father's wedded Wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.
Jf his sweet Boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed :
From him no harm my Babe can take,
But he, poor Man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away.

« I'll teach my Boy the sweetest things;
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.
My little Babe! thy lips are still,
And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.
- Where art thou gone, my own dear Child'
What wicked looks are those I see?
Alas! alas! that look so wild,
It never, never came from me:
If thou art mad, my pretty lad,
Then I must be for ever sad.

« Oh smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear Mother am.
My love for thee has well been tried :
I've sought thy Father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade,
I know the earth-puts fit for food;
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;
We'll find thy Father in the wood.
Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we 'll live for aye.»

It comes.

the moor;

As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

Couched on the bald top of an eminence;

Wonder to all who do the same espy,
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ;

By what means it could thither come, and whence; But now the sun is rising calm and bright;

So that it seems a thing endued with sense:

Like a Sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;

Of rock or sand reposcth, there to sun itself;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

Nor all asleep-in his extreme old age :

His body was bent double, feet and head All things that love the sun are out of doors :

Coming together in life's pilgrimage; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage The grass is bright with rain-drops ;-on the moors

Of sickness felt by him in times long past, The Hare is running races in her mirth;

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,

Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. Upon a long grey Staff of shaven wood:

And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, I was a Traveller then upon

l'pon the margin of that moorish flood I saw the Hare that raced about with joy;

Motionless as a Cloud the Old Man stood; I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;

That heareth not the loud winds when they call ; Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:

And moveth all together, if it move at all. The pleasant season did my heart employ:

At length, himself unsettling, he the Pond My old remembrances went from me wholly;

Stirred with his Staff, and fixedly did look And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy!

Upon the muddy water, which he conned,

As if he had been reading in a book: But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might

And now a stranger's privilege I took; Of joy in minds that can no farther go,

And, drawing to his side, to bim did say, As high as we have mounted in delight

«This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.» In our dejection do we sink as low, To me that morning did it bappen so;

A gentle answer did the Old Man make, And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came;

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor And him with further words I thus bespake, could name.

«What occupation do you there pursue ! I heard the Sky-lark warbling in the sky;

This is a lonesome place for one like you.» And I bethought me of the playful Hare:

le answered, while a flash of mild surprise Even such a happy Child of earth am I;

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. Even as these blissful Creatures do I fare;

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, Far from the world I walk, and from all care;

But each in solemn order followed cach, But there may come another day to me

With something of a lofty utterance drest ; Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

Choice word, and measured phrase; above the reach

Of ordinary men; a stately speech; My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, As if life's business were a summer mood;

Religious men,

who give to God and Man their dues. As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial goout;

He told, that to these waters he had come But how can He expect that others should

To gather Leeches, beingold and poor : Build for him, sow for him, and at his call

Employment hazardous and wearisome! Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all? And he had many hardships to endure:

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,'

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance; The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. Of Him who walked in glory and in joy

The Old Man still stood talking by my side; Following his plough, along the mountain-side:

But now his voice to me was like a stream By our own spirits are we deified :

Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide ; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness : But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

And the whole Body of the Man did seem

Or like a man from some far region sent,
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. Yet it befel, that, in this lonely place,

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Beside a Pool bare to the eye of Heaven

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills: I saw a Man before me unawares:

And mighty Poets in their misery dead. The oldest Man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. -Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

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"T was 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. « But that she goes to this old Thorn, The Thorn which I 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 climb'd the mountain's height: A storm came on, and I could see No object higher than my knee.

Pass by her door-t is seldom shutAnd, 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. » « But wherefore to the mountain-top Can this unhappy woman go, Whatever star is in the skies, Whatever wind may blow?» « 'T is known, that twenty years are passed 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, While friends and kindred all approved Of him whom tenderly she loved. « And they had fixed 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 woeful day A

pang of pitiless dismay Into her soul was sent; A Fire was kindled in her breast, Which might not burn itself to rest. « 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. Alas! her lamentable state Even to a careless eye was plain; She was with child, and she was mad; Yet often she was sober sad From her exceeding pain. O guilty Father,—would that death Had saved him from that breach of faith! «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-eve we talked of this, And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen Held that the unborn lofant wrought About its mother's heart, and brought Her senses back again : And whep at last her time drew near, Her looks were calm, her senses clear. « More know I not, I wish I did, And it should all be told to you; For what became of this

poor

Child
No Mortal ever knew;
Nay-if a Child to her was born
No earthly tongue could ever tell;
And if ' was born alive or dead,
Far less could this with proof be said
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.
« And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-pcak,

« 'T was 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 look'd around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,—and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the cray to gain;
And as I am a man,
Jostead of jutting crag, I found
A woman seated on the ground.
« I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face!- it was enough for me;
I turn d about and heard her cry,
‘Oh misery! oh 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!'
« But what's the Thorn? and what the Pond?
And what the hill of moss to her ?
And what the creeping breeze that comes
The little Pond to stir?»
«I cannot tell; but some will say
She liang'd her Baby on the tree;
Some

say she drown'd it in the Pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and cach agree,
The little Babe was buried there,
Beneath that Hill of moss so fair.
«I've heard the moss is spotted 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 Pood 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, 't is plain
The baby looks at you again.

« And some had sworn an oath that she

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; Should be to public justice brought;

I will not stop to tell how far he fled, And for the little infant's bones

Nor will I mention by what death he died;
With spades they would have sought.

But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
It might not be-the Hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!

Dismounting then, he leaned against a thorn; And for full fifty yards around,

He had no follower, Dog, nor Mao, nor Boy: The grass-it shook upon the ground!

He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew luis horn, Yet all do still aver

But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. The little Babe is buried there,

Close to the thorn op which Sir Walter lean'd, Beneath that Hill of moss so fair,

Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat: « I cannot tell how this may be :

Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd; But plain it is, the Thorn is bound

And wbite with foam as if with cleaving sleet. With heavy tufts of moss, that strive To drag it to the ground;

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd: And this I know, full mapy a time,

His nostril touchi'd a spring beneath a bill, When she was on the mountain high,

And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd By day, and in the silent night,

The waters of the spring were trembling still.
When all the stars shone clear and bright,

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
That I have heard her cry,
O misery! oh misery!

(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west, Oh woe is me! ob misery!'»

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill-(it was at least
HART-LEAP WELL.

Nine roods of sheer asceni) Sir Walter found

Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast Bart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Rubeood in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads fron Richmond 10 Askrige. lis name is derived from a remark- Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, « Till now able chase, the memory of wbich is preserved by the monuments

Such sight was never seen by living eyes : spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monumesta do now exist as I have there described them.

Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow

Down to the very fountain where he lies. Toe Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor « I 'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;

And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; lle turned aside towards a Vassal's door,

"T will be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's cot, And « Bring another horse!» he cried aloud.

A place of love for Damsels that are coy. Another Horse!»–That shout the Vassal beard,

« A cunning Artist will I have to frame Aod saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;

A basin for that Fountain in the dell! Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third

And they who do make mention of the same, Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP Well. Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes;

« And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known, The Horse and Horseman are a happy pair;

Another monument shall here be raised; But though Sir Walter like a falcon tlies,

Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone, There is a doleful silence in the air.

And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,

« And, in the summer-time when days are long, That as they callop'd made the echoes roar;

I will come hither with my Paramour; But Ilorse and Man are vanishid one and all;

And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song Sach race, I think, was never seen before.

We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,

« Till the foundations of the mountains fail Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain:

My Mansion with its Arbour shall endure;Blanch, Swift, and Music, poblest of their kind, The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!» The Knight hallood, he cheer'd and chid them on Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stero; With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. But breath and eyesighe fail; and, one by one, -Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, The Dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. Anu far and wide the fame thereof did ring. Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steerd, The bugles that so joyfully were blown?

A Cup of stone received the living Well; - This Chase it looks not like an carilily Chase; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, Sir Walter and thc lları are left alone,

And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.

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