Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition)

Of many things which never troubled me;

Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,

Of looks where common kindness had no part,

Of service done with careless cruelty,

Fretting the fever round the languid heart,

And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start.

These things just served to stir the torpid sense,

Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.

Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence

Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,

At houses, men, and common light, amazed.

The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired,

Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed;

The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired,

And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired.

My heart is touched to think that men like these,

The rude earth’s tenants, were my first relief:

How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease!

And their long holiday that feared not grief,

For all belonged to all, and each was chief.

No plough their sinews strained; on grating road

No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf

In every vale for their delight was stowed:

For them, in nature’s meads, the milky udder flowed.

Semblance, with straw and pauniered ass, they made

Of potters wandering on from door to door:

But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed,

And other joys my fancy to allure;

The bagpipe dinning on the midnight moor

In barn uplighted, and companions boon

Well met from far with revelry secure,

In depth of forest glade, when jocund June

Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

But ill it suited me, in journey dark

O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch;

To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark.

Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch;

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,

The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,

And ear still busy on its nightly watch,

Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill;

Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.

What could I do, unaided and unblest?

Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine:

And kindred of dead husband are at best

Small help, and, after marriage such as mine,

With little kindness would to me incline.

Ill was I then for toil or service fit:

With tears whose course no effort could confine,

By highway side forgetful would I sit

Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit.

I lived upon the mercy of the fields,

And oft of cruelty the sky accused;

On hazard, or what general bounty yields,

Now coldly given, now utterly refused,

The fields I for my bed have often used:

But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth

Is, that I have my inner self abused,

Foregone the home delight of constant truth,

And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.

Three years a wanderer, often have I view’d,

In tears, the sun towards that country tend

Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:

And now across this moor my steps I bend —

Oh! tell me whither — for no earthly friend

Have I. — She ceased, and weeping turned away,

As if because her tale was at an end

She wept; — because she had no more to say

Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

Table of Contents

Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter?

What is’t that ails young Harry Gill?

That evermore his teeth they chatter,

Chatter, chatter, chatter still.

Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,

Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;

He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,

“Tis all the same with Harry Gill;

The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

At night, at morning, and at noon,

‘Tis all the same with Harry Gill;

Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

Young Harry was a lusty drover,

And who so stout of limb as he?

His cheeks were red as ruddy clover,

His voice was like the voice of three.

Auld Goody Blake was old and poor,

Ill fedd she was, and thinly clad;

And any man who pass’d her door,

Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling,

And then her three hours’ work at night!

Alas! ‘twas hardly worth the telling,

It would not pay for candlelight.

— This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,

Her hut was on a cold hill-side,

And in that country coals are dear,

For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,

Two poor old dames, as I have known,

Will often live in one small cottage,

But she, poor woman, dwelt alone.

‘Twas well enough when summer came,

The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,

Then at her door the canty dame

Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,

Oh! then how her old bones would shake!

You would have said, if you had met her,

‘Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.

Her evenings then were dull and dead;

Sad case it was, as you may think,

For very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! when e’er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout,

And scatter’d many a lusty splinter,

And many a rotten bough about.

Yet never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says,

A pile beforehand, wood or stick,

Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,

And made her poor old bones to ache,

Could any thing be more alluring,

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?

And now and then, it must be said,

When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,

To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected

This trespass of old Goody Blake,

And vow’d that she should be detected,

And he on her would vengeance take.

And oft from his warm fire he’d go,

And to the fields his road would take,

And there, at night, in frost and snow,

He watch’d to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out did Harry stand;

The moon was full and shining clearly,

And crisp with frost the stubble-land.

— He hears a noise — he’s all awake —

Again? — on tip-toe down the hill

He softly creeps—’Tis Goody Blake,

She’s at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her:

Stick after stick did Goody pull,

He stood behind a bush of elder,

Till she had filled her apron full.

When with her load she turned about,

The bye-road back again to take,

He started forward with a shout,

And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

And fiercely by the arm he took her,

And by the arm he held her fast,

And fiercely by the arm he shook her,

And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!”

Then Goody, who had nothing said,

Her bundle from her lap let fall;

And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d

To God that is the judge of all.

She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing,

While Harry held her by the arm —

“God! who art never out of hearing,

“O may he never more be warm!”

The cold, cold moon above her head,

Thus on her knees did Goody pray,

Young Harry heard what she had said,

And icy-cold he turned away.