Wordsworth (16 page)
Authors: William Wordsworth
Oh reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his horse are doing!
What they’ve been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme,
A most delightful tale pursuing!
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
He with his pony now doth roam
The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
To lay his hands upon a star,
And in his pocket bring it home.
Perhaps he’s turned himself about,
His face unto his horse’s tail,
And still and mute, in wonder lost,
All like a silent horseman-ghost,
He travels on along the vale.
And now, perhaps, he’s hunting sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he!
Yon valley, that’s so trim and green,
In five months’ time, should he be seen,
A desart wilderness will be.
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He’s galloping away, away,
And so he’ll gallop on for aye,
The bane of all that dread the devil.
I to the muses have been bound,
These fourteen years, by strong indentures;
Oh gentle muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel.
For sure he met with strange adventures.
Oh gentle muses! is this kind?
Why will ye thus my suit repel?
Why of your further aid bereave me?
And can ye thus unfriended leave me?
Ye muses! whom I love so well.
Who’s yon, that near the water-fall,
Which thunders down with headlong force,
Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were,
Sits upright on a feeding horse?
Unto his horse, that’s feeding free,
He seems, I think, the rein to give;
Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
Of such we in romances read,
–’Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
And that’s the very pony too.
Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
She hardly can sustain her fears;
The roaring water-fall she hears,
And cannot find her idiot boy.
Your pony’s worth his weight in gold,
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She’s coming from among the trees,
And now, all full in view, she sees
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
And Betty sees the pony too:
Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?
It is not goblin, ‘tis no ghost,
’Tis he whom you so long have lost,
He whom you love, your idiot boy.
She looks again – her arms are up –
She screams – she cannot move for joy;
She darts as with a torrent’s force,
She almost has o’erturned the horse,
And fast she holds her idiot boy.
And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud,
Whether in cunning or in joy,
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,
To hear again her idiot boy.
And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
And now she’s at the pony’s head,
On that side now, and now on this,
And almost stifled with her bliss,
A few sad tears does Betty shed.
She kisses o’er and o’er again,
Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,
She’s happy here, she’s happy there,
She is uneasy everywhere;
Her limbs are all alive with joy.
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
The little pony glad may be,
But he is milder far than she,
You hardly can perceive his joy.
’Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
You’ve done your best, and that is all.’
She took the reins, when this was said,
And gently turned the pony’s head
From the loud water-fall.
By this the stars were almost gone,
The moon was setting on the hill,
So pale you scarcely looked at her:
The little birds began to stir,
Though yet their tongues were still.
The pony, Betty, and her boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale:
And who is she, be-times abroad,
That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,
And many dreadful fears beset her,
Both for her messenger and nurse;
And as her mind grew worse and worse,
Her body it grew better.
She turned, she tossed herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
Point after point did she discuss;
And while her mind was fighting thus,
Her body still grew better.
’Alas! what is become of them?
These fears can never be endured,
I’ll to the wood.’ – The word scarce said,
Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.
Away she posts up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come,
She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;
Oh me! it is a merry meeting,
As ever was in Christendom.
The owls have hardly sung their last,
While our four travellers homeward wend;
The owls have hooted all night long,
And with the owls began my song,
And with the owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, ’Tell us Johnny, do,
Where all this long night you have been,
What you have heard, what you have seen,
And Johnny, mind you tell us true.’
Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been
From eight o’clock till five.
And thus to Betty’s question, he
Made answer, like a traveller bold,
(His very words I give to you,)
’The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
And the sun did shine so cold.’
– Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
And that was all his travel’s story.
A whirl-blast from behind the hill
Among all lovely things my Love had been
Behold her, single in the field
Behold, within the leafy shade
Dear Native Brooks your ways have I pursued
Earth has not anything to show more fair
Five years have past; five summers, with the lenght
I heard a thousand blended notes
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide
If from the public way you turn your steps
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
It is the first mild day of March
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
My heart leaps up when I behold
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room
O blithe New-comer! I have heard
Oh there is a blessing in this gentle breeze
Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?
One morning (raw it was and wet –
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Stay near me – do not take thy flight!
Strange fits of passion have I known
Surprised by joy – impatient as the Wind
The Child is Father of the Man
The post-boy drove with fierce career
The world is too much with us; late and soon
There is a change – and I am poor
There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine
There is a thorn; it looks so old
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale
There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs
There was a roaring in the wind all night
Three years she grew in sun and shower
’Tis eight o’clock, – a clear March night
Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!
’Twas summer and the sun was mounted high
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books
We walked along, while bright and red
’Why, William, on that old grey stone
