If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a roadside;

And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be,

For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.
1799.

Even such a happy Child of earth am I :
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare:
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me -
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

VI.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life's business were a summer mood:
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good:
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at
all?

VII.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified:

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness: But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

VIIL

VI.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits between the heap
So like an infant's grave in size,

And that same pond of which I spoke,

A Woman in a scarlet cloak,

And to herself she cries,

'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!'

VII.

At all times of the day and night
This wretched Woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows:

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!""

VIII.

"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor Woman go?
And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And wherefore does she cry?—
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?"

IX.

"I cannot tell: I wish I could:
For the true reason no one knows:
But would you gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes:
The hillock like an infant's grave,
The pond-and Thorn, so old and grey;
Pass by her door-'tis seldom shut-
And, 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."

X

"But wherefore to the mountain-top
Can this unhappy Woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?"

"Full twenty years are past and gone
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with 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.

XI.

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.

XII.

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.

What could she seek?-or wish to hide?
Her state to any eye was plain;

She was with child, and she was mad ;
Yet often was she sober sad

From her exceeding pain;

O guilty Father-would that death
Had saved him from that breach of faith!
XIII.

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 infant wrought
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:

And, when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, het senses clear.

XIV,

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 'twas 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.

XV.

And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain-peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The churchyard 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.

XVI.

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 climbed the mountain's height:-
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.

XVII.

'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain:
No screen, no fence could I discover:
And then the wind! in sooth, it was
A wind full ten times over.

I looked around, I thought I saw

XXIV.

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor

With the slow motion of a summer's cloud, And now, as he approached a vassal's door, 'Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud. "Another horse!"-That shout the vassal heard

And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him: he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair:
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight hallooed, he cheered and chic

them on

With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern. But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one The dogs are stretched among the mountain

fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
-This chase it looks not like an earthly chase:
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat:
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched:
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had
fetched

The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and

And climbing up the hill-it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted
Beast

Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till

now

Such sight was never seen by human eyes: Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,

Down to the very fountain where he lies.
I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy:
"Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell !
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP
WELL.

And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have
grazed.

And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;--
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!"
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-
dead,

With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.

-Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;

And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were inter-
twined,-

Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.
And thither, when the summer days were long
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.

PART SECOND.

THE moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,-
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor
head:

Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."
I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow:-him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
But something ails it now: the spot is curst.
Some say that they are beeches, others elms-
You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood-
These were the bower; and here a mansion
stood,

The finest palace of a hundred realms !
The arbour does its own condition tell;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the

stream:

But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone;
There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.
What thoughts must through the creature's
brain have past!

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, Are but three bounds-and look, Sir, at this last

O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this
place,

And come and make his death-bed near the well.

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the fountain in the summer-tide;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.
In April here beneath the flowering thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.
Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;
The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;
So will it be, as I have often said,

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone.