A barking sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He halts and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or in height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;-
What is the creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,
That keeps till June December's snow;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere ;
Thither the rainbow comes
the cloud And mists that spread the flying shroud;
1 Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly high up in
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past;
But that enormous barrier binds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appall'd discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall'd the name,
And who he was, and whence he came ;
Remember'd, too, the very day
On which the traveller pass'd this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake
A lasting monument of words
This lamentable tale I tell!
This wonder merits well.
The hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid ery,
A dweller in that savage place.
had been through three months' space
When this ill-fated traveller died
Or by his master's side:
that since the day
watch'd about the spot,
He knows, who gave that love sublime;
How nourish'd here through such long time
Next to these ladies, but in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died;
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene:
Of no man's question Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's presence Isaac look'd dismay'd;
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written on his face;
Yet, while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And, with the firmest, had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh.
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd:
(Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
To miss one favour, which their neighbours find :)
Yet far was he from stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved.
I mark'd his action, when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried :
The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue
can speak.
If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the
Nor pride in rustic skill, although
None his superiors, and his equals few :
But, if that spirit in his soul had
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame by virtue gain'd;
In sturdy boys to virtuous labour train'd;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied—
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride.
In times severe, when many a sturdy swain
Felt it his pride, his comfort to complain,
Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,
And feel in that his comfort and his pride.
True to his church he came, no Sunday shower
Kept him at home in that important hour.
I feel his absence in the house of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there.
I see no more those white locks, thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honour'd head;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there. -
But he is blest, and I lament no more
A wise good man, contented to be poor.
Much would it please you sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor;
To view a sailor just return'd from sea,
His wife beside, a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portion of the welcome news;
"When the strong fainted, and the wicked prayed; – "When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismayed, "When tempests raved, and horrors veil'd the sky; ̧
wning gulf far down we drove,
the billowy mount above;
up that mountain swinging with the gale,
horrors of the watery vale!” children look with steadfast eyes, involuntary sighs;
"We view'd the
The trembling
And panting sob
And sleep awhile
And all is
his torpid touch delays,
joy, and piety, and praise.
'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And with an eager, and suspended soul,
Woo terror to delight us.- -But to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,
To know all human skill, all human strength,
Avail not, to look around, and only
The mountain-wave incumbent, with its weight
Of bursting waters, o'er the reeling bark-
Ah me! this is indeed a dreadful thing;
And he, who hath endured the horror once
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home, but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suffering mariner.
SOUTHEY.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe,
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave:
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