THE WAGGONER.

TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. MY DEAR FRIEND,-When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked why THE WAGGONER. was not added?" To say the truth,-from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended, this little piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was read to you in manuscript: and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknow. ledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your writings, and of the high esteem with which I am, very truly yours,

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819.

CANTO I.

"Tis spent-this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealThe dor-hawk, solitary bird, [ing;

Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling,

Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune;
That constant voice is all that can be heard
In silence deeper far than that of deepest
noon !

Confiding glow-worms! 'tis a night
Propitious to your earth-born light;
But, where the scattered stars are seen
In hazy straits the clouds between,
Each, in his station twinkling not,
Seems changed into a pallid spot.
The air, as in a lion's den,

Is close and hot ;-and now and then
Comes a tired and sultry breeze
With a haunting and a panting,
Like the stifling of disease;

The mountains rise to wondrous height,
And in the heavens there hangs a weight;
But the dews allay the heat,

And the silence makes it sweet.

Hush, there is some one on the stir! 'Tis Benjamin the waggoner;— Who long hath trod this toilsome way Companion of the night and day. That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer, Mixed with a faint yet grating sound In a moment lost and found, The wain announces - by whose side, Along the banks of Rydal Mere, He paces on, a trusty guide,Listen! you can scarcely hear! Hither he his course is bending :Now he leaves the lower ground, And up the craggy hill ascending Many a stop and stay he makes, Many a breathing-fit he takes ;Steep the way and wearisome, Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

The horses have worked with right goodwill,

And now have gained the top of the hill;
He was patient-they were strong-
And now they smoothly glide along,
Gathering breath, and pleased to win
The praises of mild Benjamin.
Heaven shield him from mishap and snare'
But why so early with this prayer?
Is it for threatenings in the sky?

Or for some other danger nigh?

No, none is near him yet, though he

Be one of much infirmity;
For, at the bottom of the brow,
Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Offered a greeting of good ale
To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
And called on him who must depart
To leave it with a jovial heart ;-
There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
Once hung, a poet harbours now,-
A simple water-drinking bard;
Why need our hero, then, (though frail
His best resolves) be on his guard?
He marches by, secure and bold,-
Yet, while he thinks on times of old,
It seems that all looks wondrous cold;
He shrugs his shoulders-shakes his head -
And, for the honest folk within,
It is a doubt with Benjamin
Whether they be alive or dead!

Here is no danger,-none at all! Beyond his wish is he secure ; But pass a mile-and then for trial, — Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call, If he resist those casement panes,

[fall

And that bright gleam which thence will
Upon his leaders' bells and manes,
Inviting him with cheerful lure;
For still, though all be dark elsewhere,
Some shining notice will be there,
Of open house and ready fare.

The place to Benjamin full well
Is known, and by as strong a spell
As used to be that sign of love

And hope-the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE
He knows it to his cost, good man!
Who does not know the famous SWAN?
Uncouth although the object be,
An image of perplexity;
Yet not the less it is our boast,
For it was painted by the host;
His own conceit the figure planned,
'Twas coloured all by his own hand;
And that frail child of thirsty clay,
Of whom I sing this rustic lay,
Could tell with self-dissatisfaction
Quaint stories of the bird's attraction !*

Well! that is past-and in despite
Of open door and shining light.
And now the conqueror essays
The long ascent of Dunmail-raise;
And with his team is gentle here
As when he clomb from Rydal Mere;
His whip they do not dread-his voice
They only hear it to rejoice.

To stand or go is at their pleasure;
Their efforts and their time they measure
By generous pride within the breast
And, while they strain, and while they rest,
He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.

Now am I fairly safe to-night-
And never was my heart more light.
I trespassed lately worse than ever-
But Heaven will bless a good endeavour;
And, to my soul's delight, I find
The evil one is left behind.
Yes, let my master fume and fret,
Here am I-with my horses yet!
My jolly team, he finds that ye
Will work for nobody but me!
Good proof of this the country gained,
One day, when ye were vexed and strained-
Intrusted to another's care,

And forced unworthy stripes to bear.
Here was it-on this rugged spot
Which now, contented with our lot,

This rude piece of self-taught art (such is the progress of refinement) has been supplanted by a professional production.

We climb-that, piteously abused,
Ye plunged in anger and confused:
As chance would have it, passing by
I saw you in your jeopardy :

A word from me was like a charm-
The ranks were taken with one mind;
And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
Moved like a vessel in the wind!
Yes, without me, up hills so high
"Tis vain to strive for mastery.

Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
The road we travel, steep and rough.
Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise,
And all their fellow banks and braes,
Full often make you stretch and strain,
And halt for breath and halt again,
Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing
That side by side we still are going!

While Benjamin in earnest mood
His meditations thus pursued,

A storm, which had been smothered long,
Was growing inwardly more strong;
And, in its struggles to get free,

Was busily employed as he.

The thunder had begun to growl-
He heard not, too intent of soul;
The air was now without a breath-
He marked not that 'twas still as death.
But soon large drops upon his head
Fell with the weight of drops of lead ;-
He starts-and, at the admonition,
Takes a survey of his condition.
The road is black before his eyes,
Glimmering faintly where it lies;
Black is the sky-and every hill,
Up to the sky, is blacker still;
A huge and melancholy room,
Hung round and overhung with gloom!
Save that above a single height

Is to be seen a lurid light,

Above Helm-cragt-a streak half dead,
A burning of portentous red;
And, near that lurid light, full well
The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
Where at his desk and book he sits,
Puzzling on high his curious wits;
He whose domain is held in common
With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN,
Cowering beside her rifted cell;

As if intent on magic spell ;-
Dread pair, that spite of wind and weather,
Still sit upon Helm-crag together!

A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous Cobbler, ner Arroquhar, in Scotland.

The ASTROLOGER was not unseen

By solitary Benjamin :

trees

But total darkness came anon,
And he and everything was gone.
And suddenly a ruffling breeze,
(That would have sounded through the
Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
Was felt throughout the region bare.
The rain rushed down-the road was bat-
tered,

As with the force of billows shattered;
The horses are dismayed, nor know
Whether they should stand or go;
And Benjamin is groping near them,
Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.
He is astounded,-wonder not,—
With such a charge in such a spot;
Astounded in the mountain gap
By peals of thunder, clap on clap!
And many a terror-striking flash ;-
And somewhere, as it seems, a crash,
Among the rocks; with weight of rain,
And sullen motions long and slow,
That to a dreary distance go-
Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,
Arending o'er his head begins the fray again.

Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,
And oftentimes compelled to halt,
The horses cautiously pursue
Their way, without mishap or fault;
And now have reached that pile of stones,
Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;
He who had once supreme command,
Last king of rocky Cumberland;
His bones, and those of all his power,
Slain here in a disastrous hour!

When, passing through this narrow Stony, and dark, and desolate, [strait, Benjamin can faintly hear

A voice that comes from some one near,
A female voice :-"Whoe'er you be,
Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!"
And less in pity than in wonder,
Amid the darkness and the thunder,
The waggoner, with prompt command,
Summons his horses to a stand.

The voice, to move commiseration,
Prolonged its earnest supplication-
"This storm that beats so furiously-
This dreadful place! oh, pity me!"

While this was said, with sobs between,
And many tears, but all unseen,
There came a flash-a startling glare,
And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare!

'Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
And Benjamin, without further question,
Taking her for some way-worn rover,
Said, Mount, and get you under cover!"

Another voice, in tone as hoarse
As a swoln brook with rugged course,
Cried out," Good brother, why so fast?
I've had a glimpse of you-avast!
Or, since it suits you to be civil,
Take her at once-for good and evil!"

"It is my husband," softly said
The woman, as if half afraid :
By this time she was snug within,
Through help of honest Benjamin ;

She and her babe, which to her breast
With thankfulness the mother pressed;
And now the same strong voice more near
Said cordially, "My friend, what cheer?
Rough doings these! as God's my judge,
The sky owes somebody a grudge!
We've had in half an hour or less
A twelvemonth's terror and distress !"'

Then Benjamin entreats the man
Would mount, too, quickly as he can:
The sailor, sailor now no more,
But such he had been heretofore,
To courteous Benjamin replied,

'Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide, My ass and fifty things beside,Go, and I'll follow speedily!"

The waggon moves-and with its load
Descends along the sloping road;
And to a little tent hard by
Turns the sailor instantly;
For when, at closing-in of day,
The family had come that way,
Green pasture and the soft warm air
Had tempted them to settle there.
Green is the grass for beast to graze,
Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

The sailor gathers up his bed,
Takes down the canvas overhead;
And, after farewell to the place,
A parting word-though not of grace,
Pursues, with ass and all his store,
The way the waggon went before.

CANTO II.

IF Wytheburn's modest house of prayer,
As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
Had, with its belfry's humble stock,
A little pair that hang in air,

Been mistress also of a clock,

(And one, too, not in crazy plight)

This was the outside proclamation, This was the inside salutation;

telling

Under the brow of old Helvellyn-
Its bead-roll of midnight,

Then, when the hero of my tale
Was passing by, and down the vale
(The vale now silent, hushed I ween,
As if a storm had never been)
Proceeding with an easy mind;
While he, who had been left behind,
Intent to use his utmost haste,
Gained ground upon the waggon fast,
And gives another lusty cheer;
For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
A welcome greeting he can hear ;-
It is a fiddle in its glee

Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!

Thence the sound-the light is there-
As Benjamin is now aware,
Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
Had almost reached the festive door,
When, startled by the sailor's roar,
He hears a sound and sees the light,
And in a moment calls to mind
That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT!*

Although before in no dejection,
At this insidious recollection
His heart with sudden joy is filled,—
His ears are by the music thrilled,
His eyes take pleasure in the road

littering before him bright and broad;
And Benjamin is wet and cold,
And there are reasons manifold [yearning
That make the good, towards which he's
Look fairly like a lawful earning.

Nor has thought time to come and go, To vibrate between yes and no;

For," cries the sailor, "glorious chance That blew us hither! Let him dance Who can or will;-my honest soul Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" He draws him to the door-" Come in, Come, come," cries he to Benjamin; And Benjamin-th, woe is me! Gave the word, -the horses heard And halted, though reluctantly.

"Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have Feasting at the CHERRY TREE!"'

[we

A term well known in the north of England, and applied to rural festivals where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose of dancing.

A universal overflow,

What tankards foaming from the tap!
What store of cakes in every lap!
What

thumping-stumping-over-head! The thunder had not been more busy : With such a stir, you would have said, This little place may well be dizzy! "Tis who can dance with greatest vigour 'Tis what can be most prompt and

eager;

As if it heard the fiddle's call,
The pewter clatters on the wali;
The very bacon shows its feeling,
Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

A steaming bowl-a blazing fire-
What greater good can heart desire?
'Twere worth a wise man's while to try
The utmost anger of the sky;

To seek for thoughts of painful cast,
If such be the amends at last.
Now, should you think I judge amiss,
The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
For soon, of all the happy there,

Our travellers are the happiest pair.
All care with Benjamin is gone-

A Cæsar past the Rubicon !

He thinks not of his long, long strife ;-
The sailor man, by nature gay,
Hath no resolves to throw away;
And he hath now forgot his wife,
Hath quite forgotten her-or may be
Deems that she is happier, laid
Within that warm and peaceful bed;
Under cover, terror over,
Sleeping by her sleeping baby.