University of Virginia Library

So having spent
His all, save one poor plank to outride the wreck,
To that same plank he did commit himself,
Swim or else sink—leaving behind him nought
But emptiness for who came after him,
And curses for his kin—so he launched forth:
Wishing no other terms with those he left,
But a far offing: and a little farm
That in its littleness had been o'erlooked,
When ruin smote the rest, he made his home:
Reckless, as any swallow, of the world
He left behind: Then he flung clean away
The thought of what so lately he had been,
As 'twere the cobbler's dream of pageantry;
And that high flying spirit now kept wing
Evenly, with this new life's lowliness.
Thus his safe level he found; and having thrown
His silly foolish lendings off from him,
'Stead of the puffy feathery things he was
Stood up, a stalwart stripling. Thence, unthralled
From idleness, and highborn beggary,
He found his loss the greatest gain of all,
From follies clear'd, a fair free opening field.
Aye, and no lack of wholesome growth, from farm,
Orchard or garden; till he came to love
That boor-like swilth more than his lordly fare;
Since truly earned by toil—nor yet his sports
Did he forego, nor pastime, wont of old,
But what was then a spendthrift gulf he made
Gainful, with gun and dog ranging his fields
While overwatching his hired hands withal.
Thence striding often straight away to the wild
Neighbouring moorlands, trackless, boundless, bleak;
No trace of toil, nor token of ownership:
Unhindered, thus he followed, year on year,
His wilful way, till—a most luckless time—
There came among the mountains a strange man
And claimed them to be his. As the babe cries,
“My toy, give me my toy;” for were they not
As truly now and lawfully his own
As they were once God's who created them?
And he was asked, how were those mountains his
More than the sea or sky, who ne'er had tilled,
No, nor e'en trodden them: and then he showed
For all his answer an old wither'd skin
O'erwritten with strange words: some wizard sure
Had traced them; for “here,” so he said, “I hold
In hand, aye in these sheep-skins, yon whole ridge
Of mountain, east and west; yes, these are those,
And those are these; three skins cover them all,
From the whole world to me—who says me nay,
Better in words keep his denial close,
Nor act it out.” All this to Linsingen
Seemed idle, as a drunken dotard's dream,
Nor better worth a thought: so on he held,
Heeding no more such stay than a witch's straw
To bar his path—but danger, when least deemed,
Her deadliest weapons oftentimes doth wear
(Even as Treason hath been crafty mad,)
'Neath an uncouth disguise. That owner's ill
Words ripen'd to worse deeds: for wilfulness,
Whate'er it doth for pleasure, suffers more
In pain. The law, which slept not, tho' for years
It seemed to sleep, sharp as a snare of steel,
And subtle, caught him in the open act
And held him fast, spite of his hands and teeth,
Till she had wreaked on him her uttermost—
A galling shackle; wrung him sorer yet
Striving to rid it; vainly, what he bore:
Ill, he must rue the worse—and the after-thought
Was very bitterness. So did his pride
Beget upon his hate a hatefully
Proud issue: and the old disdain, that stem
Of evil, that was slowly dying out,
Now, pruned by the law's knife, sprang up afresh
With many shoots. Sad upshot! for thenceforth
He mated him with reckless fellows wild,
Whose deeds were not of day, but such as gave
To night a darker shadow than its own:
Poachers on river, over moor, in wood,
As chance seemed likeliest; smugglers, or they
Who share the smuggler's risk of loss or gain;
Selling uncustom'd wares: those and the like,
With wilfulness akin to wickedness,
He took unto him, not for their own sakes,
But for they outraged those who hated him;
Whom yet, as a good Christian, he should love,
And would he had—but did not—