STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN.* STRANGE fits of passion have I known : And I will dare to tell, But in the Lover's ear alone, What once to me befel. When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, t I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening-moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh‡ Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still. In one of those sweet dreams I slept, * Written at Goslar, in Germany, 1799. + When she I loved was strong and gay, My horse trudged on, and we drew nigh.-Edit. 1815. My horse moved on; hoof after hoof What fond and wayward thoughts will slide "O mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN.* I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed * Written at Goslar, 1799. LOUISA. AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION. I MET Louisa in the shade, And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong,* She loves her fire, her cottage-home; And, when against the wind she strains, Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon,' If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, When up she winds along the brook * That she is ruddy, fleet and strong.-Edit. 1815. 1805. In the earlier editions the following stanza is interposed between the first and second, as at present printed : And she hath smiles to earth unknown, Smiles that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink and rise; That come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away, 'TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE. 'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground, * Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known ; He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved the pretty Barbara died; And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made: "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart : I look-the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace e; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, * In Cumberland and Westmorland, there is an unwillingness to use the churchyard ground north of the church, for Christian burial. Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain-bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Oh let it then be dumb! Be anything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,* And stir not in the gale. For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint * whose arch so proudly towers, 1800. Even like a rainbow.-Edit. 1815. |