The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
And the Old Woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.

Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
The monk my son, and my daughter the nun
Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,
And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.

The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door,
'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,
Now take the sacrament away
For mercy, my children dear!

Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
I have tortures in store for evermore,
Oh! spare me my children now!

Away they sent the sacrament,
The fit it left her weak,
She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes
And faintly struggled to speak.

All kind of sin I have rioted in
And the judgment now must be,
But I secured my childrens souls,
Oh! pray my children for me.

I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,
I have nointed myself with infants fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

And the fiend will fetch me now in fire
My witchcrafts to atone,
And I who have rifled the dead man's grave
Shall never have rest in my own.

Bless I intreat my winding sheet
My children I beg of you!
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud
And sprinkle my coffin too.

And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone
And fasten it strong I implore
With iron bars, and let it be chain'd
With three chains to the church floor.

And bless the chains and sprinkle them,
And let fifty priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

And let fifty choristers be there
The funeral dirge to sing,
Who day and night by the taper's light
Their aid to me may bring.

Let the church bells all both great and small
Be toll'd by night and day,
To drive from thence the fiends who come
To bear my corpse away.

And ever have the church door barr'd
After the even song,
And I beseech you children dear
Let the bars and bolts be strong.

And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save,
Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng
And then I may rest in my grave.

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down
And her eyes grew deadly dim,
Short came her breath and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.

They blest the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers as due,
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone
And with iron barr'd it down,
And in the church with three strong chains
They chain'd it to the ground.

And they blest the chains and sprinkled them,
And fifty priests stood round,
By night and day the mass to say
Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty choristers were there
To sing the funeral song,
And a hallowed taper blazed in the hand
Of all the sacred throng.

To see the priests and choristers
It was a goodly sight,
Each holding, as it were a staff,
A taper burning bright.

And the church bells all both great and small
Did toll so loud and long,
And they have barr'd the church door hard
After the even song.

And the first night the taper's light
Burnt steadily and clear.
But they without a hideous rout
Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door
Like a long thunder peal,
And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung
Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,
The tapers they burnt bright,
The monk her son, and her daughter the nun
They told their beads all night.

The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing
And the fifty priests they pray.

The second night the taper's light
Burnt dismally and blue,
And every one saw his neighbour's face
Like a dead man's face to view.

And yells and cries without arise
That the stoutest heart might shock,
And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring
Over a mountain rock.

The monk and nun they told their beads
As fast as they could tell,
And aye as louder grew the noise
The faster went the bell.

Louder and louder the choristers sung
As they trembled more and more,
And the fifty priests prayed to heaven for aid,
They never had prayed so before.

The cock he crew, away they flew
The fiends from the herald of day,
And undisturb'd the choristers sing
And the fifty priests they pray.

The third night came and the tapers flame
A hideous stench did make,
And they burnt as though they had been dipt
In the burning brimstone lake.

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of ocean,
Grew momently more and more,
And strokes as of a battering ram
Did shake the strong church door.

The bellmen they for very fear
Could toll the bell no longer,
And still as louder grew the strokes
Their fear it grew the stronger.

The monk and nun forgot their beads,
They fell on the ground dismay'd,
There was not a single saint in heaven
Whom they did not call to

A Ballad, Shewing How An Old Woman Rode Double, And Who Rode Before Her

It was a summer's evening;
    Old Casper's work was done,
And he before his cottage-door
    Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
    Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet
    In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Casper took it from the boy,
    Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
    And with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden, for
    There's many here about;
And often, when I go to plough,
    The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in the great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
    Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up,
    With wonder-waiting eyes:
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Casper cried,
    "That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
    I could not well make out;
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,
    Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
    And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round,
    Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then
    And new-born infant died.
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight,
    After the field was won,
For many a thousand bodies here
    Lay rotting in the sun.
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
    And our good Prince Eugene."
"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"
    Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory;

"And everybody praised the duke,
    Who such a fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
    Quoth little Peterkin.
"Why, that I cannot tell," said he;
"But 'twas a famous victory."

Battle Of Blenheim, The

Small is the new-born plant scarce seen
    Amid the soft encircling green,
        Where yonder budding acorn rears,
    Just o'er the waving grass, its tender head:
        Slow pass along the train of years,
    And on the growing plant, their dews and showers they shed.
        Anon it rears aloft its giant form,
        And spreads its broad-brown arms to meet the storm.
    Beneath its boughs far shadowing o'er the plain,
From summer suns, repair the grateful village train.

        Nor BEDFORD will my friend survey
    The book of Nature with unheeding eye;
        For never beams the rising orb of day,
        For never dimly dies the refluent ray,
    But as the moralizer marks the sky,
He broods with strange delight upon futurity.

    And we must muse my friend! maturer years
    Arise, and other Hopes and other Fears,
        For we have past the pleasant plains of Youth.
    Oh pleasant plains! that we might stray
        For ever o'er your faery ground--
        For ever roam your vales around,
    Nor onward tempt the dangerous way--
    For oh--what numerous foes assail
    The Traveller, from that chearful vale!

    With toil and heaviness opprest
    Seek not the flowery bank for rest,
    Tho' there the bowering woodbine spread
    Its fragrant shelter o'er thy head,
Tho' Zephyr there should linger long
To hear the sky-lark's wildly-warbled song,
There heedless Youth shalt thou awake
The vengeance of the coiling snake!

Tho' fairly smiles the vernal mead
To tempt thy pilgrim feet, proceed
    Hold on thy steady course aright,
Else shalt thou wandering o'er the pathless plain,
    When damp and dark descends the night
Shivering and shelterless, repent in vain.

And yet--tho' Dangers lurk on every side
Receive not WORLDLY WISDOM for thy guide!
    Beneath his care thou wilt not know
    The throb of unavailing woe,
    No tear shall tremble in thine eye
    Thy breast shall struggle with no sigh,
    He will security impart,
    But he will apathize thy heart!

    Ah no!
    Fly Fly that fatal foe,
Virtue shall shrink from his torpedo grasp--
    For not more fatal thro' the Wretches veins
    Benumb'd in Death's cold pains
Creeps the chill poison of the deadly asp.

    Serener joys my friend await
    Maturer manhood's steady state.
    The wild brook bursting from its source
    Meanders on its early course,
    Delighting there with winding way
    Amid the vernal vale to stray,
    Emerging thence more widely spread
    It foams along its craggy bed,
    And shatter'd with the mighty shock
    Rushes from the giddy rock--
    Hurl'd headlong o'er the dangerous steep
    On runs the current to the deep,
        And gathering waters as it goes
        Serene and calm the river flows,
        Diffuses plenty o'er the smiling coast,
Rolls on its stately waves and is in ocean lost.

Birth-Day Ode, 1793

And wouldst thou seek the low abode
        Where PEACE delights to dwell?
    Pause Traveller on thy way of life!
    With many a snare and peril rife
        Is that long labyrinth of road:
    Dark is the vale of years before
        Pause Traveller on thy way!
    Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old EXPERIENCE comes to lend his leading ray.

    Not he who comes with lanthorn light
    Shall guide thy groping pace aright
        With faltering feet and slow;
    No! let him rear the torch on high
    And every maze shall meet thine eye,
        And every snare and every foe;
    Then with steady step and strong,
    Traveller, shalt thou march along.

    Tho' POWER invite thee to her hall,
    Regard not thou her tempting call
        Her splendors meteor glare;
    Tho' courteous Flattery there await
    And Wealth adorn the dome of State,
        There stalks the midnight spectre CARE;
        PEACE, Traveller! does not sojourn there.

    If FAME allure thee, climb not thou
    To that steep mountain's craggy brow
        Where stands her stately pile;
    For far from thence does PEACE abide,
        And thou shall find FAME'S favouring smile
Cold as the feeble Sun on Heclas snow-clad side,

And Traveller! as thou hopest to find
    That low and loved abode,
    Retire thee from the thronging road
And shun the mob of human kind.
Ah I hear how old EXPERIENCE schools,
"Fly fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools
    "And thou shalt fly from woe;
"The one thy heedless heart will greet
"With Judas smile, and thou wilt meet
    "In every Fool a Foe!"

So safely mayest thou pass from these,
And reach secure the home of PEACE,
    And FRIENDSHIP find thee there.
No happier state can mortal know,
No happier lot can Earth bestow
    If LOVE thy lot shall share.
Yet still CONTENT with him may dwell
    Whom HYMEN will not bless,
And VIRTUE sojourn in the cell
    Of HERMIT HAPPINESS.

Birth-Day Ode, 1796

"How does the water
                Come down at Lodore?"
                    My little boy asked me
                Thus, once on a time;
            And moreover he tasked me
                To tell him in rhyme.
                    Anon at the word,
            There first came one daughter,
                And then came another,
                    To second and third
                The request of their brother,
            And to hear how the water
                    Comes down at Lodore,
                    With its rush and its roar,
            As many a time
                    They had seen it before.
                    So I told them in rhyme,
                For of rhymes I had store;
                And 'twas in my vocation
            For their recreation
                    That so I should sing;
                Because I was Laureate
                    To them and the King.

                From its sources which well
                    In the tarn on the fell;
                    From its fountains
                    In the mountains,
                Its rills and its gills;
            Through moss and through brake,
                    It runs and it creeps
                For a while till it sleeps
                    In its own little lake.
                And thence at departing,
                Awakening and starting,
            It runs through the reeds,
                    And away it proceeds,
            Through meadow and glade,
                    In sun and in shade,
            And through the wood-shelter,
                Among crags in its flurry,
                    Helter-skelter,
                    Hurry-skurry,
                    Here it comes sparkling,
                And there it lies darkling;
                Now smoking and frothing
                    Its tumult and wrath in,
            Till, in this rapid race
                On which it is bent,
                It reaches the place
            Of its steep descent.

                The cataract strong
                Then plunges along,
                Striking and raging
                As if a war waging
            Its caverns and rocks among;
                            Rising and leaping,
                        Sinking and creeping,
                    Swelling and sweeping,
                Showering and springing,
            Flying and flinging,
            Writhing and wringing,
            Eddying and whisking,
            Spouting and frisking,
                    Turning and twisting
            Around and around
                    With endless rebound:
            Smiting and fighting,
            A sight to delight in;
                    Confounding, astounding,
    Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

                    Collecting, projecting,
                    Receding and speeding,
                    And shocking and rocking,
                    And darting and parting,
                    And threading and spreading,
                    And whizzing and hissing,
                    And dripping and skipping,
                    And hitting and splitting,
                    And shining and twining,
                    And rattling and battling,
                    And shaking and quaking,
                    And pouring and roaring,
                    And waving and raving,
                    And tossing and crossing,
                    And flowing and going,
                    And running and stunning,
                    And foaming and roaming,
                    And dinning and spinning,
                    And dropping and hopping,
                    And working and jerking,
                    And guggling and struggling,
                    And heaving and cleaving,
                    And moaning and groaning;
                    And glittering and frittering,
                    And gathering and feathering,
                    And whitening and brightening,
                    And quivering and shivering,
                    And hurrying and skurrying,
                    And thundering and floundering;

        Dividing and gliding and sliding,
        And falling and brawling and sprawling,
        And driving and riving and striving,
        And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
        And sounding and bounding and rounding,
        And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
        And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
        And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying.
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing

Cataract Of Lodore, The

From his brimstone bed at break of day
    A walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug little farm of the World,
    And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,
    And he went over the plain;
And backward and forward he swish'd his tail
    As a gentleman swishes a cane.

    How then was the Devil drest?
    Oh, he was in his Sunday's best
His coat was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.
A lady drove by in her pride,
In whose face an expression he spied
    For which he could have kiss'd her;
Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she,
With an eye as wicked as wicked can be,
I should take her for my Aunt, thought he,
    If my dam had had a sister.

        He met a lord of high degree,
        No matter what was his name;
Whose face with his own when he came to compare
        The expression, the look, and the air,
    And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair,
    Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair
    That it made the Devil start and stare
For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there,
        But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper,
    On a dung-hill beside his stable;
Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind
    Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse
    Rode by on his vocation;
And the Devil thought of his old friend
    Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house,
    A cottage of gentility,
And he own'd with a grin
That his favorite sin,
    Is pride that apes humility.

He saw a pig rapidly
    Down a river float;
The pig swam well, but every stroke
    Was cutting his own throat;
And Satan gave thereat his tail
    A twirl of admiration;
For he thought of his daughter War,
    And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth
    And nothing the worse for the jest;
But this was only a first thought
    And in this he did not rest:
Another came presently into his head,
And here it proved, as has often been said
    That second thoughts are best.

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide,
    His way with such celerity,
And at every stroke the water dyed
With his own red blood, the Devil cried,
Behold a swinish nation's pride
    In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely,
    The streets were dirty and dim:
But there he saw Brothers the Prophet,
    And Brothers the Prophet saw him.

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop;
    Quoth he, we are both of one college,
For I myself sate like a Cormorant once
    Upon the Tree of Knowledge.

As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd
    At a solitary cell;
And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint
    For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands
    With a cordial tug and jerk;
Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move
    When his heart is in his work.
He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man
    With little expedition;
And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade,
And the long debates and delays that were made,
    Concerning its abolition.

He met one of his favorite daughters
    By an Evangelical Meeting:
And forgetting himself for joy at her sight,
He would have accosted her outright,
    And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried,
    Avaunt! my name's Religion!
And then she turn'd to the preacher
    And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he,
As the great Alexander now may be,
        Whose fame not yet o'erpast is:
    Or that new Scotch performer
    Who is fiercer and warmer,
        The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's.
        Far famed his flock for frightning;
And thundering with his voice, the while
    His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow,
    Beats Alexander hollow;
Even when most tame
He breathes more flame
    Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow.

Another daughter he presently met;
    With music of fife and drum,
    And a consecrated flag,
    And shout of tag and rag,
    And march of rank and file,
Which had fill'd the crowded aisle
Of the venerable pile,
    From church he saw her come.
He call'd her aside, and began to chide,
        For what dost thou here? said he,
    My city of Rome is thy proper home,
        And there's work enough there for thee.

        Thou hast confessions to listen,
        And bells to christen,
And altars and dolls to dress;
        And fools to coax,
        And sinners to hoax,
    And beads and bones to bless;
        And great pardons to sell
        For those who pay well,
And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post,
    She answered; and thou wilt allow,
        That the great Harlot,
        Who is clothed in scarlet,
    Can very well spare me now.

    Upon her business I am come here,
        That we may extend our powers:
Whatever lets down this church that we

Devil's Walk On Earth, The

In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock, moated about with a river of unfounded depth, the water black and the fish therein very distateful to the palate. In this are spectres often seen, which foreshew either the death of the Governor, or some prime officer belonging to the place; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape of an harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under the water.

It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that none suspected but that she was still alive; for she did both speak and eat, though very sparingly; only she had a deep paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of death. At length a Magician coming by where she was then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he beheld her he said, "fair Maids, why keep you company with the dead Virgin whom you suppose to be alive?" when taking away the magic charm which was tied under her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion.

The following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are to be found in the notes to The Hierarchies of the blessed Angels; a Poem by Thomas Heywood, printed in folio by Adam Islip, 1635.


DONICA.

High on a rock, whose castled shade
    Darken'd the lake below,
In ancient strength majestic stood
    The towers of Arlinkow.

The fisher in the lake below
    Durst never cast his net,
Nor ever swallow in its waves
    Her passing wings would wet.

The cattle from its ominous banks
    In wild alarm would run,
Tho' parched with thirst and faint beneath
    The summer's scorching sun.

For sometimes when no passing breeze
    The long lank sedges waved,
All white with foam and heaving high
    Its deafening billows raved;

And when the tempest from its base
    The rooted pine would shake,
The powerless storm unruffling swept
    Across the calm dead lake.

And ever then when Death drew near
    The house of Arlinkow,
Its dark unfathom'd depths did send
    Strange music from below.

The Lord of Arlinkow was old,
    One only child had he,
Donica was the Maiden's name
    As fair as fair might be.

A bloom as bright as opening morn
    Flush'd o'er her clear white cheek,
The music of her voice was mild,
    Her full dark eyes were meek.

Far was her beauty known, for none
    So fair could Finland boast,
Her parents loved the Maiden much,
    Young EBERHARD loved her most.

Together did they hope to tread
    The pleasant path of life,
For now the day drew near to make
    Donica Eberhard's wife.

The eve was fair and mild the air,
    Along the lake they stray;
The eastern hill reflected bright
    The fading tints of day.

And brightly o'er the water stream'd
    The liquid radiance wide;
Donica's little dog ran on
    And gambol'd at her side.

Youth, Health, and Love bloom'd on her cheek,
    Her full dark eyes express
In many a glance to Eberhard
    Her soul's meek tenderness.

Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale
    Sigh'd thro' the long lank sedge,
The air was hushed, no little wave
    Dimpled the water's edge.

Sudden the unfathom'd lake sent forth
    Strange music from beneath,
And slowly o'er the waters sail'd
    The solemn sounds of Death.

As the deep sounds of Death arose,
    Donica's cheek grew pale,
And in the arms of Eberhard
    The senseless Maiden fell.

Loudly the youth in terror shriek'd,
    And loud he call'd for aid,
And with a wild and eager look
    Gaz'd on the death-pale Maid.

But soon again did better thoughts
    In Eberhard arise,
And he with trembling hope beheld
    The Maiden raise her eyes.

And on his arm reclin'd she moved
    With feeble pace and slow,
And soon with strength recover'd reach'd

Yet never to Donica's cheek
    Return'd the lively hue,
Her cheeks were deathy, white, and wan,
    Her lips a livid blue.

Her eyes so bright and black of yore
    Were now more black and bright,
And beam'd strange lustre in her face
    So deadly wan and white.

The dog that gambol'd by her side,
    And lov'd with her to stray,
Now at his alter'd mistress howl'd
    And fled in fear away.

Yet did the faithful Eberhard
    Not love the Maid the less;
He gaz'd with sorrow, but he gaz'd
    With deeper tenderness.

And when he found her health unharm'd
    He would not brook delay,
But press'd the not unwilling Maid
    To fix the bridal day.

And when at length it came, with joy
    They hail'd the bridal day,
And onward to the house of God
    They went their willing way.

And as they at the altar stood
    And heard the sacred rite,
The hallowed tapers dimly stream'd
    A pale sulphureous light.

And as the Youth with holy warmth
    Her hand in his did hold,
Sudden he felt Donica's hand
    Grow deadly damp and cold.

And loudly did he shriek, for lo!
    A Spirit met his view,
And Eberhard in the angel form
    His own Donica knew.

That instant from her earthly frame
    Howling the Daemon fled,
And at the side of Eberhard
    The livid form

Donica

STRANGER.
        Old friend! why you seem bent on parish duty,
        Breaking the highway stones,--and 'tis a task
        Somewhat too hard methinks for age like yours.


OLD MAN.
        Why yes! for one with such a weight of years
        Upon his back. I've lived here, man and boy,
        In this same parish, near the age of man
        For I am hard upon threescore and ten.
        I can remember sixty years ago
        The beautifying of this mansion here
        When my late Lady's father, the old Squire
        Came to the estate.


STRANGER.
            Why then you have outlasted
        All his improvements, for you see they're making
        Great alterations here.


OLD MAN.
            Aye-great indeed!
        And if my poor old Lady could rise up--
        God rest her soul! 'twould grieve her to behold
        The wicked work is here.


STRANGER.
             They've set about it
        In right good earnest. All the front is gone,
        Here's to be turf they tell me, and a road
        Round to the door. There were some yew trees too
        Stood in the court.


OLD MAN.
             Aye Master! fine old trees!
        My grandfather could just remember back
        When they were planted there. It was my task
        To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me!
        All strait and smooth, and like a great green wall!
        My poor old Lady many a time would come
        And tell me where to shear, for she had played
        In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride
        To keep them in their beauty. Plague I say
        On their new-fangled whimsies! we shall have
        A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs
        And your pert poplar trees;--I could as soon
        Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down!


STRANGER.
        But 'twill be lighter and more chearful now,
        A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road
        Round for the carriage,--now it suits my taste.
        I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh,
        And then there's some variety about it.
        In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose,
        And the laburnum with its golden flowers
        Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes
        The bright red berries of the mountain ash,
        With firs enough in winter to look green,
        And show that something lives. Sure this is better
        Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look
        All the year round like winter, and for ever
        Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs
        So dry and bare!


OLD MAN.
         Ah! so the new Squire thinks
        And pretty work he makes of it! what 'tis
        To have a stranger come to an old house!


STRANGER.

        It seems you know him not?


OLD MAN.
            No Sir, not I.
        They tell me he's expected daily now,
        But in my Lady's time he never came
        But once, for they were very distant kin.
        If he had played about here when a child
        In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries,
        And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers,
        That fell so thick, he had not had the heart
        To mar all thus.


STRANGER.
        Come--come! all a not wrong.
        Those old dark windows--


OLD MAN.
            They're demolish'd too--
        As if he could not see thro' casement glass!
        The very red-breasts that so regular
        Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs,
        Won't know the window now!


STRANGER.
            Nay they were high
        And then so darken'd up with jessamine,
        Harbouring the vermine;--that was a fine tree
        However. Did it not grow in and line
        The porch?


OLD MAN.
        All over it: it did one good
        To pass within ten yards when 'twas in blossom.
        There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside.
        My Lady loved at evening to sit there
        And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet
        And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favourite dog
        She did not love him less that he was old
        And feeble, and he always had a place
        By the fire-side, and when he died at last
        She made me dig a grave in the garden for him.
        Ah I she was good to all! a woful day
        'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went!


STRANGER.
        They lost a friend then?


OLD MAN.
        You're a stranger here
        Or would not ask that question. Were they sick?
        She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs
        She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter
        When weekly she distributed the bread
        In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear
        The blessings on her! and I warrant them
        They were a blessing to her when her wealth
        Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir!
        It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen
        Her Christmas kitchen,--how the blazing fire
        Made her fine pewter shine, and holly

Eclogue I. The Old Mansion-House

JANE.
     Harry! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round
     The fire, and Grandmamma perhaps will tell us
     One of her stories.


HARRY.
            Aye--dear Grandmamma!
     A pretty story! something dismal now;
     A bloody murder.


JANE.
            Or about a ghost.


GRANDMOTHER.
     Nay, nay, I should but frighten you. You know
     The other night when I was telling you
     About the light in the church-yard, how you trembled
     Because the screech-owl hooted at the window,
     And would not go to bed.


JANE.
             Why Grandmamma
     You said yourself you did not like to hear him.
     Pray now! we wo'nt be frightened.


GRANDMOTHER.
             Well, well, children!
     But you've heard all my stories. Let me see,--
     Did I never tell you how the smuggler murdered
     The woman down at Pill?


HARRY.
             No--never! never!


GRANDMOTHER.
     Not how he cut her head off in the stable?


HARRY.
     Oh--now! do tell us that!


GRANDMOTHER.
         You must have heard
     Your Mother, children! often tell of her.
     She used to weed in the garden here, and worm
     Your uncle's dogs [1], and serve the house with coal;
     And glad enough she was in winter time
     To drive her asses here! it was cold work
     To follow the slow beasts thro' sleet and snow,
     And here she found a comfortable meal
     And a brave fire to thaw her, for poor Moll
     Was always welcome.


HARRY.
             Oh--'twas blear-eyed Moll
     The collier woman,--a great ugly woman,
     I've heard of her.


GRANDMOTHER.
             Ugly enough poor soul!
     At ten yards distance you could hardly tell
     If it were man or woman, for her voice
     Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore
     A man's old coat and hat,--and then her face!
     There was a merry story told of her,
     How when the press-gang came to take her husband
     As they were both in bed, she heard them coming,
     Drest John up in her night-cap, and herself
     Put on his clothes and went before the Captain.


JANE.
     And so they prest a woman!


GRANDMOTHER.
                 'Twas a trick
     She dearly loved to tell, and all the country
     Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel
     For miles around. All weathers and all hours
     She crossed the hill, as hardy as her beasts,
     Bearing the wind and rain and winter frosts,
     And if she did not reach her home at night
     She laid her down in the stable with her asses
     And slept as sound as they did.


HARRY.
                 With her asses!


GRANDMOTHER.
     Yes, and she loved her beasts. For tho' poor wretch
     She was a terrible reprobate and swore
     Like any trooper, she was always good
     To the dumb creatures, never loaded them
     Beyond their strength, and rather I believe
     Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want,
     Because, she said, they could not ask for food.
     I never saw her stick fall heavier on them
     Than just with its own weight. She little thought
     This tender-heartedness would be her death!
     There was a fellow who had oftentimes,
     As if he took delight in cruelty.
     Ill-used her Asses. He was one who lived
     By smuggling, and, for she had often met him
     Crossing the down at night, she threatened him,
     If he tormented them again, to inform
     Of his unlawful ways. Well--so it was--
     'Twas what they both were born to, he provoked her,
     She laid an information, and one morn
     They found her in the stable, her throat cut
     From ear to ear,'till the head only hung
     Just by a bit of skin.


JANE.
     Oh dear! oh dear!


HARRY.
     I hope they hung the man!


GRANDMOTHER.
     They took him up;
     There was no proof, no one had seen the deed,
     And he was set at liberty. But God
     Whoss eye beholdeth all things, he had seen
     The murder, and the murderer knew that God
     Was witness to his crime. He fled the place,
     But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand
     Of heaven, but nowhere could the murderer rest,
     A guilty conscience haunted him, by day,
     By night, in company, in solitude,
     Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him
     The weight of blood; her cries were in his ears,
     Her stifled groans as when he knelt upon her
     Always he heard; always he saw her stand
     Before his eyes; even in the dead of night
     Distinctly seen as tho' in the broad sun,
     She stood beside the murderer's bed and yawn'd
     Her ghastly wound; till life itself became
     A punishment at last he could not bear,
     And he confess'd [2] it all, and gave himself
     To death, so terrible, he said, it was
     To have a guilty conscience!


HARRY.
            Was he hung then?


GRANDMOTHER.
     Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man,
     Your uncles went to see him on his trial,
     He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed,
     And such a horror in his meagre face,
     They said he look'd

Eclogue II. The Grandmothers Tale

The coffin [1] as I past across the lane
Came sudden on my view. It was not here,
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of the great city, and we paus'd and ask'd
Who to the grave was going. It was one,
A village girl, they told us, who had borne
An eighteen months strange illness, and had pined
With such slow wasting that the hour of death
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk
That passes o'er the mind and is forgot,
We wore away the time. But it was eve
When homewardly I went, and in the air
Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade
That makes the eye turn inward. Then I heard
Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow; it made me think upon the dead,
I questioned more and learnt her sorrowful tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's name,
And he who should have cherished her, far off
Sail'd on the seas, self-exil'd from his home,
For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name. She had one ill
Heavier, neglect, forgetfulness from him
Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,
But only once that drop of comfort came
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness;
And when his parents had some tidings from him,
There was no mention of poor Hannah there,
Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer
Than silence. So she pined and pined away
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd,
Nor did she, even on her death bed, rest
From labour, knitting with her outstretch'd arms
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother
Omitted no kind office, and she work'd
Hard, and with hardest working barely earn'd
Enough to make life struggle and prolong
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, so worn
With her long suffering and that painful thought
That at her heart lay rankling, and so weak,
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant; and the child,
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her
With a strange infantine ingratitude
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. She was past
That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on,
And 'twas her only comfoft now to think
Upon the grave. "Poor girl!" her mother said,
"Thou hast suffered much!" "aye mother! there is none
"Can tell what I have suffered!" she replied,
"But I shall soon be where the weary rest."
And she did rest her soon, for it pleased God
To take her to his mercy.

Robert Southey