VII. LINES Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. NAY, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yewtree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here -Who he was That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 15 First covered, and here taught this aged Tree 10 19 26 30 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper: 40 When nature had subdued him to herself, vale He died, this seat his only monument. 45 If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, For any living thing, hath faculties 50 move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; 60 1795. VIII. GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN. ADVERTISEMENT, PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM, PUBLISHED IN 1842. NoT less than one-third of the following poem, though it has from time to time been altered in the expression, was published so far back as the year 1798, under the title of "The Female Vagrant." The extract is of such length that an apology seems to be required for reprinting it here: but it was necessary to restore it to its original position, or the rest would have been unintelligible. The whole was written before the close of the year 1794, and I will detail, rather as matter of literary biography than for any other reason, the circumstances under which it was produced. During the latter part of the summer of 1793, having passed a month in the Isle of Wight, in view of the fleet which was then preparing for sea off Portsmouth at the commencement of the war, I left the place with melancholy forebodings. The American war was still fresh in memory. The struggle which was beginning, and which many thought would be brought to a speedy close by the irresistible arms of Great Britain being added to those of the Allies, I was assured in my own mind would be of long continuance, and productive of distress and misery beyond all possible calculation. This conviction was pressed upon me by having been a witness, during a long residence in revolutionary France, of the spirit which prevailed in that country. After leaving the Isle of Wight, I spent two days in wandering on foot over Salisbury Plain, which, though cultivation was then widely spread through parts of it, had upon the whole a still more impressive appearance than it now retains. The monuments and traces of antiquity, scattered in abundance over that region, led me unavoidably to compare what we know or guess of those remote times with certain aspects of modern society, and with calamities, principally those consequent upon war, to which, more than other classes of men, the poor are subject. In those reflections, joined with particular facts that had come to my knowledge, the following stanzas originated. In conclusion, to obviate some distraction in the minds of those who are well acquainted with Salisbury Plain, it may be proper to say that, of the features described as belonging to it, one or two are taken from other desolate parts of England. I. A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum's Plain air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care 5 Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. II. While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, 10 He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" 15 The pendent grapes glittered above the door ;On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. III. The gathering clouds grew red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; 20 That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; 25 But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. IV. No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, 30 But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout-in vain; |