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LYRICAL BALLADS,


WITH



A FEW OTHER POEMS.




BRISTOL:

PRINTED BY BIGGS AND COTTLE,

FOR T. N LONGMAN, PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON.


1798.

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CONTENTS.

Page
The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere - - - - 1
The Foster-Mother's Tale - - - - - - - 53
Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands
near the Lake of Esthwaite - - - - - 59
Lewti; or the Circassian Love Chant - - - 63
The Female Vagrant - - - - - - - - 69
Goody Blake and Harry Gill - - - - - - 85
Lines written at a small distance from my House,
and sent by my little Boy to the person to
whom they are addressed - - - - 95
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman - - - - - 98
Anecdote for Fathers - - - - - - - - 105
We are seven - - - - - - - - - - - 110
Lines written in early spring - - - - - - 115
The Thorn - - - - - - - - - - - 117
The last of the Flock - - - - - - - - 133
The Dungeon - - - - - - - - - - - 139
The Mad Mother - - - - - - - - - 141
The Idiot Boy - - - - - - - - - - 149
Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames,
at Evening - - - - - - - - - - 180
Expostulation and Reply - - - - - - - 183
The Tables turned; an Evening Scene, on the
same subject - - - - - - - - - - 186
Old Man travelling - - - - - - - - - 189
The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - 193
The Convict - - - - - - - - - - - 197
Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey 201


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ADVERTISEMENT.


It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are to be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The evidence of this fact is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics, but in those of Poets themselves.

The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments. They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to the purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers accustomed to the


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gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to struggle with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round for poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these attempts can be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that such readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way of their gratification; but that, while they are perusing this book, they should ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human passions, human characters, and human incidents; and if the answer be favorable to the author's wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in spite of that most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own pre-established codes of decision.


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Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of the style in which many of these pieces are executed it must be expected that many lines and phrases will not exactly suit their taste. It will perhaps appear to them, that wishing to avoid the prevalent fault of the day, the author has sometimes descended too low, and that many of his expressions are too familiar, and not of sufficient dignity. It is apprehended, that the more conversant the reader is with our elder writers, and with those in modern times who have been the most successful in painting manners and passions, the fewer complaints of this kind will he have to make.

An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Sir Joshua Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can only be produced by severe thought, and a long continued intercourse with the best models of composition. This is


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mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to prevent the most inexperienced reader from judging for himself; but merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if poetry be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so.

The tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill is founded on a well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. Of the other poems in the collection, it may be proper to say that they are either absolute inventions of the author, or facts which took place within his personal observation or that of his friends. The poem of the Thorn, as the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the author's own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere was profes-


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sedly written in imitation of the style, as well as of the spirit of the elder poets; but with a few exceptions, the Author believes that the language adopted in it has been equally intelligible for these three last centuries. The lines entitled Expostulation and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to modern books of moral philosophy.


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CONTENTS.

Page
The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere - - - - 1
The Foster-Mother's Tale - - - - - - - 53
Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands
near the Lake of Esthwaite - - - - - 59
The Nightingale, a Conversational Poem - - 63
The Female Vagrant - - - - - - - - 69
Goody Blake and Harry Gill - - - - - - 85
Lines written at a small distance from my House,
and sent by my little Boy to the person to
whom they are addressed - - - - 95
Simon Lee, the old Huntsman - - - - - 98
Anecdote for Fathers - - - - - - - - 105
We are seven - - - - - - - - - - - 110
Lines written in early spring - - - - - - 115
The Thorn - - - - - - - - - - - 117
The last of the Flock - - - - - - - - 133
The Dungeon - - - - - - - - - - - 139
The Mad Mother - - - - - - - - - 141
The Idiot Boy - - - - - - - - - - 149
Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames,
at Evening - - - - - - - - - - 180
Expostulation and Reply - - - - - - - 183
The Tables turned; an Evening Scene, on the
same subject - - - - - - - - - - 186
Old Man travelling - - - - - - - - - 189
The Complaint of a forsaken Indian Woman - 193
The Convict - - - - - - - - - - - 197
Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey 201


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Pages 1-62 as in the London issue, beginning with "The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere" and ending with "Lines left upon a seat in a Yew-Tree". Then "The Nightingale" occurs, followed by "Lewti".

The following textual variants occur in this copy:
p. 13 line 115   every w here
p. 19 line 200   Oft is not corrected


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THE NIGHTINGALE;

A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL,

1798.



No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

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A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
"Most musical, most melancholy"* Bird!
A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
In nature there is nothing melancholy.
--But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper or neglected love,
(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain;
And many a poet echoes the conceit,

* "Most musical, most melancholy." This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.


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Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be lov'd, like nature!--But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices always full of love

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And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful, that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many Nightingales: and far and near
In wood and thicket over the wide grove
They answer and provoke each other's songs--
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
And one low piping sound more sweet than all--

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Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

                                        A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate
To something more than nature in the grove)
Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon
Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky

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With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd
Many a Nightingale perch giddily
On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.--That strain again!
Full fain would it delay me!--My dear Babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

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To make him Nature's playmate. 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 beholds the moon, and hush'd at once
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well--
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 night
He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.

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L E W T I ;

OR,


THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE CHANT.



At midnight, by the stream I rov'd
To forget the form I lov'd.
Image of LEWTI! from my mind
Depart; for LEWTI is not kind.
The moon was high, the moonlight gleam,
And the shadow of a star
Heav'd upon Tamaha's stream;
But the rock shone brighter far.
The rock half-sheltered from my view,
By pendant boughs of tressy yew.--
So shines my LEWTI'S forehead fair,
Gleaning thro' her sable hair.

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Image of LEWTI! from my mind
Depart; for LEWTI is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,
Onward to the moon it pass'd.
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reach'd the moon at last.
Then the cloud was wholly bright,
With a rich and amber light;
And so with many a hope I seek,
And with such joy I find my LEWTI;
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty!
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind,
If LEWTI never will be kind.
The little cloud--it floats away,
Away it goes--away so soon!
Alas! it has no pow'r to stay:
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey--
Away it passes from the moon.

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How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky--
And now 'tis whiter than before,
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, LEWTI! on my couch I lie,
A dying man, for love of thee.
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind--
And yet thou didst not look unkind!
I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin and white and very high.
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud--
Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below, and now above,
Have snatch'd aloft the lawny shroud
Of lady fair, that died for love:
For Maids, as well as Youths, have perish'd
From fruitless love, too fondly cherish'd!
Nay, treach'rous image! leave my mind--
For LEWTI never will be kind.

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Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever;
Like echoes to a distant thunder,
They plunge into the gentle river:
The river-swans have heard my tread,
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heav'nly tune!
O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon;
I would, it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where LEWTI lies,
When silent night has clos'd her eyes--
It is a breezy jasmin bow'r,
The Nightingale sings o'er her head;
Had I the enviable pow'r
To creep unseen with noiseless tread,
Then should I view her bosom white,
Heaving lovely to the sight,

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As those two swans together heave
On the gently swelling wave.
O that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care!
All pale and wasted I would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are.
I'd die indeed, if I might see
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow LEWTI may be kind.

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Pages 69-212 as in the London issue, beginning with "The Female Vagrant" and ending with "Tintern Abbey" and the Errata leaf, except page 204 where "thou wanderer through the woods" reads "wood" and "gleams of half-extinguish'd thought" reads "though ,".

Also, p. 101 line 42   reads "horse behind" while some copies have "horsebehind".


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Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

                                                 If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,
In darkness, and amid the many shapes
Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the wood
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd though ,