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Moving untouched in silver purity,

And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom.
Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:
But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn
With brightness! leaving her to post along,
And range about, disquieted in change,
And still impatient of the shape she wears.
Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe
That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st
In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon
Hath this conception, grateful to behold,
Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be

A mournful labour, while to her is given
Hope, and a renovation without end.
-That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen;
Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports
The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers
Thy loneliness or shall those smiles be called
Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore
This untried world, and to prepare thy way
Through a strait passage intricate and dim?
Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs,
Which, when the appointed season hath arrived,
Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt;
And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.

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WHEN I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked why THE WAGGONER was not added?' -To say the truth,-from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours,

Rydal Mount, May 20, 1819.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CANTO FIRST.

Tis spent-this burning day of June!

Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;

The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheel

ing,

That solitary bird

Is all that can be heard

In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!

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The air, as in a lion's den,

Is close and hot ;-and now and then
Comes a tired and sultry breeze
With a haunting and a panting,
Like the stifling of disease;
But the dews allay the heat,
And the silence makes it sweet.

Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner; Who long hath trod this toilsome way, Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The Wain announces by whose side Along the banks of Rydal Mere He paces on, a trusty Guide,

Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending ;-Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes ;Steep the way and wearisome,

Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

The Horses have worked with right good-will,
And so have gained the top of the hill;
He was patient, they were strong,
And now they smoothly glide along,
Recovering breath, and pleased to win
The praises of mild Benjamin.

Heaven shield him from mishap and snare!
But why so early with this prayer?—
Is it for threatenings in the sky?
Or for some other danger nigh?
No; none is near him yet, though he
Be one of much infirmity;
For at the bottom of the brow,
Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Offered a greeting of good ale

To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
And called on him who must depart
To leave it with a jovial heart;
There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
A simple water-drinking Bard;
Why need our Hero then (though frail
His best resolves) be on his guard?
He marches by, secure and bold;
Yet while he thinks on times of old,
It seems that all looks wondrous cold;
He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
And, for the honest folk within,
It is a doubt with Benjamin
Whether they be alive or dead!

Here is no danger,-none at all!
Beyond his wish he walks secure;
But pass a mile-and then for trial,—
Then for the pride of self-denial;
If he resist that tempting door,
Which with such friendly voice will call;
If he resist those casement panes,

And that bright gleam which thence will fall
Upon his Leaders' bells and manes,
Inviting him with cheerful lure:
For still, though all be dark elsewhere,
Some shining notice will be there,

Of open house and ready fare.

The place to Benjamin right well Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love And hope the OLIVE-BOUGH and Dove; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous SWAN? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, For it was painted by the Host; His own conceit the figure planned, "Twas coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing this rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! •

Well! that is past-and in despite
Of open door and shining light.
And now the conqueror essays
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise;
And with his team is gentle here
As when he clomb from Rydal Mere;
His whip they do not dread-his voice
They only hear it to rejoice.

To stand or go is at their pleasure;
Their efforts and their time they measure
By generous pride within the breast;
And, while they strain, and while they rest,
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.

Now am I fairly safe to-nightAnd with proud cause my heart is light: I trespassed lately worse than ever— But Heaven has blest a good endeavour; And, to my soul's content, I find The evil One is left behind. Yes, let my master fume and fret, Here am I-with my horses yet! My jolly team, he finds that ye Will work for nobody but me! Full proof of this the Country gained; It knows how ye were vexed and strained, And forced unworthy stripes to bear, When trusted to another's care. Here was it on this rugged slope, Which now ye climb with heart and hope, I saw you, between rage and fear, Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, And ever more and more confused, As ye were more and more abused: As chance would have it, passing by I saw you in that jeopardy:

*This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the progress of refinement) has been supplanted by a professional production.

A word from me was like a charm;
Ye pulled together with one mind;
And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
Moved like a vessel in the wind!
-Yes, without me, up hills so high
"Tis vain to strive for mastery.

Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
The road we travel, steep, and rough;
Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise,
And all their fellow banks and braes,
Full often make you stretch and strain,
And halt for breath and halt again,
Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing
That side by side we still are going!

While Benjamin in earnest mood
His meditations thus pursued,

A storm, which had been smothered long,
Was growing inwardly more strong;
And, in its struggles to get free,
Was busily employed as he.

The thunder had begun to growl

He heard not, too intent of soul;
The air was now without a breath-
He marked not that 'twas still as death.
But soon large rain-drops on his head
Fell with the weight of drops of lead ;-
He starts and takes, at the admonition,
A sage survey of his condition.

The road is black before his eyes,
Glimmering faintly where it lies;
Black is the sky—and every hill,
Up to the sky, is blacker still-
Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,
Hung round and overhung with gloom;
Save that above a single height
Is to be seen a lurid light,
Above Helm-crag *—a streak half dead,
A burning of portentous red;
And near that lurid light, full well
The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
Where at his desk and book he sits,
Puzzling aloft his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in common
With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN,
Cowering beside her rifted cell,

As if intent on magic spell ;—

Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together!

* A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler near Arroquhar in Scotland.

The ASTROLOGER was not unseen By solitary Benjamin;

But total darkness came anon,

And he and every thing was gone:

And suddenly a ruffling breeze,

(That would have rocked the sounding trees
Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
Swept through the Hollow long and bare:
The rain rushed down-the road was battered,
As with the force of billows shattered;
The horses are dismayed, nor know
Whether they should stand or go;

And Benjamin is groping near them,
Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.

He is astounded,-wonder not,—
With such a charge in such a spot;
Astounded in the mountain gap
With thunder-peals, clap after clap,
Close-treading on the silent flashes—
And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes
Among the rocks; with weight of rain,
And sullen motions long and slow,

That to a dreary distance go

Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,

A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.

Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue

Their way, without mishap or fault;

And now have reached that pile of stones,
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;
He who had once supreme command,
Last king of rocky Cumberland;
His bones, and those of all his Power,
Slain here in a disastrous hour!

When, passing through this narrow strait, Stony, and dark, and desolate,

Benjamin can faintly hear

A voice that comes from some one near,
A female voice :-" Whoe'er you be,
Stop," it exclaimed," and pity me!"
And, less in pity than in wonder,
Amid the darkness and the thunder,
The Waggoner, with prompt command,
Summons his horses to a stand.

While, with increasing agitation, The Woman urged her supplication, In rueful words, with sobs betweenThe voice of tears that fell unseen; There came a flash-a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare!

'Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
And Benjamin, without a question,
Taking her for some way-worn rover,
Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!"

Another voice, in tone as hoarse As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I've had a glimpse of you-avast! Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once-for good and evil!"

"It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin; She and her Babe, which to her breast With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge! We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror and distress!"

Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The Sailor Sailor now no more, But such he had been heretoforeTo courteous Benjamin replied, "Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide, My Ass and fifty things beside,Go, and I'll follow speedily!"

The Waggon moves-and with its load
Descends along the sloping road;
And the rough Sailor instantly

Turns to a little tent hard by:
For when, at closing-in of day,
The family had come that way,
Green pasture and the soft warm air
Tempted them to settle there.-
Green is the grass for beast to graze,
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise !

The Sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvass overhead; And, after farewell to the place,

A parting word-though not of grace, Pursues, with Ass and all his store, The way the Waggon went before.

CANTO SECOND.

IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock,
A little pair that hang in air,
Been mistress also of a clock,
(And one, too, not in crazy plight)

Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
Under the brow of old Helvellyn—
Its bead-roll of midnight,
Then, when the Hero of my tale
Was passing by, and, down the vale
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween
As if a storm had never been)
Proceeding with a mind at ease;
While the old Familiar of the seas
Intent to use his utmost haste,
Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,
And gives another lusty cheer;
For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
A welcome greeting he can hear ;—
It is a fiddle in its glee

Dinning from the CHERRY TREE !

Thence the sound-the light is thereAs Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the Sailor's roar, He hears a sound and sees the light, And in a moment calls to mind That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT !*

Although before in no dejection, At this insidious recollection

His heart with sudden joy is filled,—

His ears are by the music thrilled,
His eyes take pleasure in the road
Glittering before him bright and broad ;
And Benjamin is wet and cold,

And there are reasons manifold

That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning.

Nor has thought time to come and go,
To vibrate between yes and no ;
For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance
That blew us hither!-let him dance,
Who can or will !-my honest soul,
Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!"

A term well known in the North of England, and applied to rural Festivals where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing.

He draws him to the door-"Come in,
Come, come," cries he to Benjamin !
And Benjamin-ah, woe is me!
Gave the word—the horses heard
And halted, though reluctantly.

'Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,
Feasting at the CHERRY TREE !'
This was the outside proclamation,
This was the inside salutation;

What bustling-jostling-high and low!
A universal overflow !

What tankards foaming from the tap!
What store of cakes in every lap!
What thumping-stumping-overhead !
The thunder had not been more busy :
With such a stir you would have said,
This little place may well be dizzy!
"Tis who can dance with greatest vigour
'Tis what can be most prompt and eager ;
As if it heard the fiddle's call,
The pewter clatters on the wall;
The very bacon shows it feeling,
Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
What greater good can heart desire ?
"Twere worth a wise man's while to try
The utmost anger of the sky :

To seek for thoughts of a gloomy cast,
If such the bright amends at last.
Now should you say I judge amiss,
The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
For soon of all the happy there,
Our Travellers are the happiest pair;
All care with Benjamin is gone—
A Cæsar past the Rubicon !

He thinks not of his long, long, strife ;-
The Sailor, Man by nature gay,
Hath no resolves to throw away;
And he hath now forgot his Wife,
Hath quite forgotten her-or may be
Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
Within that warm and peaceful berth,

Under cover,

Terror over, Sleeping by her sleeping Baby.

With bowl that sped from hand to hand, The gladdest of the gladsome band, Amid their own delight and fun, They hear when every dance is done, When every whirling bout is o'er—

The fiddle's squeak*—that call to bliss,
Ever followed by a kiss ;

They envy not the happy lot,
But enjoy their own the more!

While thus our jocund Travellers fare, Up springs the Sailor from his chairLimps (for I might have told before That he was lame) across the floorIs gone-returns-and with a prize; With what?-a Ship of lusty size; A gallant stately Man-of-war, Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car. Surprise to all, but most surprise To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes, Not knowing that he had befriended A Man so gloriously attended!

"This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is— Stand back, and you shall see her gratis! This was the Flag-ship at the Nile,

The Vanguard-you may smirk and smile,
But, pretty Maid, if you look near,
You'll find you've much in little here!
A nobler ship did never swim,
And you shall see her in full trim :
I'll set, my friends, to do you honour,
Set every inch of sail upon her."
So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards,
He names them all; and interlards
His speech with uncouth terms of art,
Accomplished in the showman's part;
And then, as from a sudden check,
Cries out ""Tis there, the quarter-deck
On which brave Admiral Nelson stood-
A sight that would have roused your blood!
One eye he had, which, bright as ten,
Burned like a fire among his men ;
Let this be land, and that be sea,
Here lay the French-and thus came we!

Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound,
The dancers all were gathered round,
And, such the stillness of the house,
You might have heard a nibbling mouse;
While, borrowing helps where'er he may,
The Sailor through the story runs
Of ships to ships and guns to guns;
And does his utmost to display
The dismal conflict, and the might
And terror of that marvellous night !

*At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his partner.

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