| |
| ’TIS said, that some have died for love: | |
| And here and there a church-yard grave is found | |
| In the cold north’s unhallowed ground, | |
| Because the wretched man himself had slain, | |
| His love was such a grievous pain. | 5 |
| And there is one whom I five years have known: | |
| He dwells alone | |
| Upon Helvellyn’s side: | |
| He loved—the pretty Barbara died; | |
| And thus he makes his moan: | 10 |
| Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid | |
| When thus his moan he made: | |
| |
| ‘Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! | |
| Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, | |
| That in some other way yon smoke | 15 |
| May mount into the sky! | |
| The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: | |
| I look—the sky is empty space; | |
| I know not what I trace; | |
| But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. | 20 |
| |
| ‘O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, | |
| That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? | |
| Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, | |
| It robs my heart of peace. | |
| Thou Thrush, that singest loud—and loud and free, | 25 |
| Into yon row of willows flit, | |
| Upon that alder sit; | |
| Or sing another song, or choose another tree. | |
| |
| ‘Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, | |
| And there for ever be thy waters chained! | 30 |
| For thou dost haunt the air with sounds | |
| That cannot be sustained; | |
| If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough | |
| Headlong yon waterfall must come, | |
| Oh let it then be dumb! | 35 |
| Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. | |
| |
| ‘Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, | |
| Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale, | |
| Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers, | |
| And stir not in the gale. | 40 |
| For thus to see thee nodding in the air, | |
| To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, | |
| Thus rise, and thus descend,— | |
| Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear.’ | |
| |
| The Man who makes this feverish complaint | 45 |
| Is one of giant stature, who could dance | |
| Equipped from head to foot in iron mail. | |
| Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine | |
| To store up kindred hours for me, thy face | |
| Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk | 50 |
| Within the sound of Emma’s voice, nor know | |
| Such happiness as I have known to-day. | |
| |
