wearied me,


The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: A lovely convalescent;
The light has left the summit of the hill, Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, And feverish heat incessant.
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot !

The sunny showers, the dappled sky, On the green sheep-track, up the heathy The little birds that warble high, hill,

Their vernal loves commencing, Homeward I wind my way; and lo! / Will better welcome you than I recalled

With their sweet influencing. From bodings that have well - nigh Believe me, while in bed you lay,

Your danger taught us all to pray: I find myself upon the brow, and pause

You made us grow devouter ! Startled! And after lonely sojourning

Each eye looked up and seemed to say, In such a quiet and surrounded nook,

How can we do without her ? This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty They have no need of such as you Of that huge amphitheatre of rich

In the place where you were going : And elmy fields, seems like society-- This World has angels all too few, Conversing with the mind, and giving it And Heaven is overflowing ! A livelier impulse and a dance of March 31, 1798.

thought ! And now, beloved Stowey! I behold

THE NIGHTINGALE Thy church - tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms

A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN Clustering, which mark the mansion of

APRIL 1798 my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my No cloud, no relique of the sunken day view,

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe of sullen light, no obscure trembling And my babe's mother dwell in peace !

hues. With light

Come, we will rest on this old mossy And quickened footsteps thitherward I bridge ! tend,

You see the glimmer of the stream Remembering thee, O green and silent

beneath, dell!

But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, And grateful, that by nature's quietness O’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, And solitary musings, all my heart 230

A balmy night! and though the stars be Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge

dim, Love, and the thoughts that yearn for Yet let us think upon the vernal showers human kind.

That gladden the green earth, and we NETHER STOWEY, April 20th, 1798.

shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark! the Nightingale begins its TO A YOUNG LADY

song, [Miss LAVINIA POOLE] Most musical, most melancholy bird !

A melancholy bird ? Oh! idle thought ! ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER

In Nature there is nothing melancholy. Why need I say, Louisa dear ! But some night - wandering man whose How glad I am to see you here,

heart was pierced

IO 20


With the remembrance of a grievous

And I know a grove wrong,

Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, Which the great lord inhabits not; and (And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things

SO with himself,

This grove is wild with tangling underAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the

wood, tale

And the trim walks are broken up, and Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,

grass, First named these notes a melancholy Thin grass and king-cups grow within strain.

the paths. And many a poet echoes the conceit; But never elsewhere in one place I knew Poet who hath been building up the So many nightingales; and far and near, rhyme

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, When he had better far have stretched | They answer and provoke each other's his limbs

songs, Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, With skirmish and capricious passagings, By sun or moon-light, to the influxes And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, Of shapes and sounds and shifting ele- And one low piping sound more sweet ments

than all —

61 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his Stirring the air with such an harmony, song

That should you close your eyes, you And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 30

might almost Should share in Nature's immortality, Forget it was not day! On moonlight A venerable thing! and so his song

bushes, Should make all Nature Tovelier, and Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, itself

You may perchance behold them on the Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not


Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both And youths and maidens most poetical,

bright and full,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the Glistening, while many a glow-worm in

the shade
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Lights up her love-torch.
Full of meek sympathy must heave their

A most gentle Maid,
O’er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70

Hard by the castle, and at latest eve My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate have learnt

40 To something more than Nature in the A different lore : we may not thus

grove) profane

Glides through the path ways; she knows Nature's sweet voices, always full of love

all their notes, And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That gentle Maid ! and ost, a moment's That crowds, and hurries, and pre

space, cipitates

What time the moon was lost behind a With fast thick warble his delicious notes,

cloud, As he were fearful that an April night Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky soul

With one sensation, and those wakeful Of all its music!



be so ;


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Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, He may associate joy. --- Once more, As if some sudden gale had swept at once

farewell, A hundred airy harps ! And she hath Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my watched

friends ! farewell.
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the

And to that motion tune his wanton song
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing



[As printed in the Morning Post for July 30, 1798, with the following heading



The following amusing Tale gives a very humourous description of the French Revolution, which is represented as an Ox.]


An Ox, long fed with musty hay,

And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was loosen'd on an April day,
\Vhen fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay

At once with sun and rain.


Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow

eve, And you, my friends ! farewell, a short

farewell ! We have been loitering long and plea

santly, And now for our dear homes. That

strain again!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear

Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his

His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen ! And I deem it

wise To make him Nature's play-mate. He

knows well The evening-star; and once, when he

awoke In most distressful mood (some inward

pain Had made up that strange thing, an

infant's dream), I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at

once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most

silently, While his fair


that swam with
undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam !

It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall

grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the


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A bull-dog fastend on his snout;

gores the dog ! his tongue hangs The ox drove on right through the town, out !

All follow'd, boy and dad,
He's mad, he's mad, by Jove !'

Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown :
The publicans rush'd from the Crown,

“Halloo! hamstring him ! cut him down!' 'Stop, neighbours, stop !' aloud did call

They drove the poor ox mad. 60 A sage of sober hue. • You cruel dog !' at once they bawl,

XI And women squeak and children squall,

Should you a rat to madness tease • What? would you have him toss us all ?

Why ev'n a rat might plague you : And dam'me, who are you?' 30 There's no Philosopher but sees

That Rage and Fear are one diseaseVI

Though that may burn, and this may

freeze, Ah ! hapless sage ! his ears they stun,

They're both alike the ague.
And curse him o'er and o'er !
* You bloody-minded dog! (cries one,)

To slit your windpipe were good fun,
'Od bl-st you for an impious son And so this ox, in frantic mood,
Of a Presbyterian wh-re !'

Fac'd round like a mad Bull !

The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued, VII

Till they with flight and fear were

stew'd, *You'd have him gore the Parish-priest, And not a chick of all the brood And drive against the altar !

But had his belly full ! You rogue !'

The sage his warnings ceas'd,

XIII And north and south, and west and east,


Old Nick's astride the ox, 'tis clear ! Halloo ! they follow the poor beast,

Old Nicholas, to a tittle !
Mat, Tom, Bob, Dick and Walter. But all agreed, he'd disappear,

Would but the Parson venture near,

And through his teeth, right o'er the

steer, Old Lewis ('twas his evil day),

Squirt out some fasting-spittle.
Stood trembling in his shoes ;
The ox was his—what cou'd he say ?

His legs were stiffen'd with dismay,
The ox ran o'er him mid the fray,

Achilles was a warrior fleet,
And gave him his death's bruise.

The Trojans he could worry : 80
Our Parson too was swift of feet,
But shew'd it chiefly in retreat :

The victor ox drove down the street, The baited ox drove on (but here,

The mob fled hurry-scurry.
The Gospel scarce more true is,
My Muse stops short in mid career

1 According to the common superstition there Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer!

are two ways of fighting with the Devil. You I could chuse but drop a tear,

may cut him in half with a straw, or he will

vanish if you spit over his horns with a fasting A tear for good old Lewis !)

spittle. (Note by S. T. C. in M. Post.]





In eager haste, without his hat,

As blind and blund'ring as a bat, Through gardens, lanes and fields new

In rush'd that fierce aristocrat, plough’d, Through his hedge, and through her

Our pursy woollen-draper. hedge,

XXI He plung’d and toss'd and bellow'd loud

And so my Muse per force drew bit ; Till in his madness he grew proud

And he rush'd in and panted ! To see this helter-skelter crowd

• Well, have you heard ?' No, not a That had more wrath than courage! 90

whit. What, ha’nt you heard ?' Come, out

with it! XVI

* That Tierney's wounded Mister PITT, Alack ! to mend the breaches wide

And his fine tongue enchanted.'
He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside

(Sad news for Av’rice and for Pride),
A sight of golden guineas !

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.
But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses

Oft in my waking dreams do I
And now he bawl'd, ---Stop, neighbours, Live o'er again that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I lay,
The ox is mad! I would not swop,

Beside the ruined tower.
No! not a school-boy's farthing top
For all the parish-fences.'

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 XVIII

And she was there, my hope, my joy, The ox is mad ! Tom ! Walter! Mat ! My own dear Genevieve ! •What means this coward fuss ?

She leant against the armed man, Ho! stretch this rope across the plat-

The statue of the armed knight; 'Twill trip him up--or if not that,

She stood and listened to my lay, Why, dam’me ! we must lay him flat

Amid the lingering light.
See ! here's my blunderbuss.'

Few sorrows hath she of her own.

My hope! my joy ! my Genevieve ! • A barefaced dog! just now he said

She loves me best, whene'er I sing The ox was only glad

The songs that make her grieve. Let's break his Presbyterian head !' *Hush !' quoth the sage, you've been

I played a soft and doleful air, misled ;

I sang an old and moving storyNo quarrels now ! let's all make head,

An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary. You drove the poor ox mad.'

She listened with a flitting blush, xx

With downcast eyes and modest grace ; But lo, to interrupt my chat,

For well she knew, I could not choose With the morning's wet newspaper,

But gaze upon her face.

stop !




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