Canto First

'Tis spent--this burning day of June!Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,--That solitary birdIs all that can be heardIn silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!

Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a nightPropitious to your earth-born light!But, where the scattered stars are seenIn hazy straits the clouds between,Each, in his station twinkling not,Seems changed into a pallid spot.The mountains against heaven's grave weightRise up, and grow to wondrous height.The air, as in a lion's den,Is close and hot;--and now and thenComes a tired and sultry breezeWith a haunting and a panting,Like the stifling of disease;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,Mix'd with a faint yet grating soundIn a moment lost and found,The Wain announces--by whose sideAlong the banks of Rydal MereHe 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 ascendingMany 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 good-will,And so have gained the top of the hill;He was patient, they were strong,And now they smoothly glide along,Recovering breath, and pleased to winThe 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 heBe one of much infirmity;For at the bottom of the brow,Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGHOffered a greeting of good aleTo all who entered Grasmere Vale;And called on him who must departTo leave it with a jovial heart;There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGHOnce hung, a Poet harbours now,A simple water-drinking Bard;Why need our Hero then (though frailHis 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 BenjaminWhether they be alive or dead!

Here is no danger,--none at all!Beyond his wish he walks 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,And that bright gleam which thence will fallUpon 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 right wellIs known, and by as strong a spellAs used to be that sign of loveAnd hope--the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE;He knows it to his cost, good Man!Who does not know the famous SWAN?Object uncouth! and yet 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-dissatisfactionQuaint stories of the bird's attraction!

Well! that is past--and in despiteOf open door and shining light.And now the conqueror essaysThe long ascent of Dunmail-raise;And with his team is gentle hereAs when he clomb from Rydal Mere;His whip they do not dread--his voiceThey only hear it to rejoice.To stand or go is at their pleasure;Their efforts and their time they measureBy 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 with proud cause my heart is light:I trespassed lately worse than ever--But Heaven has blest a good endeavour;And, to my soul's content, I findThe 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 yeWill work for nobody but me!Full proof of this the Country gained;It knows how ye were vexed and strained,And forced unworthy stripes to bear,When trusted to another's care.Here was it--on this rugged slope,Which now ye climb with heart and hope,I saw you, between rage and fear,Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear,And ever more and more confused,As ye were more and more abused:As chance would have it, passing byI saw you in that jeopardy:A word from me was like a charm;Ye pulled together 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 toughThe 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 owingThat side by side we still are going!

While Benjamin in earnest moodHis 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 rain-drops on his headFell with the weight of drops of lead;--He starts--and takes, at the admonition,A sage 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--Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,Hung round and overhung with gloom;Save that above a single heightIs to be seen a lurid light,Above Helm-crag --a streak half dead,A burning of portentous red;And near that lurid light, full wellThe ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,Where at his desk and book he sits,Puzzling aloft his curious wits;He whose domain is held in commonWith 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!

The ASTROLOGER was not unseenBy solitary Benjamin;But total darkness came anon,And he and every thing was gone:And suddenly a ruffling breeze,(That would have rocked the sounding treesHad aught of sylvan growth been there)Swept through the Hollow long and bare:The rain rushed down--the road was battered,As with the force of billows shattered;The horses are dismayed, nor knowWhether 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 gapWith thunder-peals, clap after clap,Close-treading on the silent flashes--And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashesAmong 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,A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.

Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,And oftentimes compelled to halt,The horses cautiously pursueTheir 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 strait,Stony, and dark, and desolate,Benjamin can faintly hearA 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.

While, with increasing agitation,The Woman urged her supplication,In rueful words, with sobs between--The voice of tears that fell 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 a question,Taking her for some way-worn rover,Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!"Another voice, in tone as hoarseAs 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 saidThe Woman, as if half afraid:By this time she was snug within,Through help of honest Benjamin;She and her Babe, which to her breastWith thankfulness the Mother pressed;And now the same strong voice more nearSaid 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 lessA twelvemonth's terror and distress!"

Then Benjamin entreats the ManWould 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 loadDescends along the sloping road;And the rough Sailor instantlyTurns to a little tent hard by:For when, at closing-in of day,The family had come that way,Green pasture and the soft warm airTempted 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 canvass 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.