University of Virginia Library

As speed the moons through all their circling rounds,
Each has its beauty 'mongst our lakes and hills;
Spring leads the seasons here with buoyant step,
And at her side there trips the new-born Year;
And Summer follows, sweet as morning's breath,
And clad in robe of many-coloured flowers.
Then mellow Autumn comes, and round her brow
Is bound a crown of golden ears of corn;
Winter the last, his head all white with snow,
And from his beard bright icicles hang down.

Giles Fleming loving in his youth's first dawn,
Not winning her he loved, lived single long,
Nor married till his head was silvered o'er
With grey. He tilled a farm that was his own,
And which from son to son had passed for years.
One only child he had, a boy, dearer
For that he was the fruit of his old age,
An Isaac born out of due time to him.
He made the gladness of his father's home,
Its brightness and its joy. Never was youth
More worthy of a parent's fondest love.
Large-browed was Philip, large-brained, large of heart;
From out an honest eye of darkest grey,
Looked forth no common mind,—one lofty, pure,
And which, like sensitive and well-tuned harp,
Responded quick to every skilful hand
That struck the chords to noble themes, and true.
He had a painter's eye, a poet's heart,
A soul that open lay to Nature's spells,
And took her lessons in with love and joy.
All that the Grammar School could give he had
Of scholarship, and at this fount he drank,
And yearned for deeper draughts of the same spring.
All books he read, or grave, or gay, romance
Or poem, legendary tale, that fell
Into his hands. These he would borrow oft
From kindly neighbour, or a willing friend;
Nay, the great Poet of the Lakes himself
Had lent him many a volume from his shelves,
And stayed the hunger at the young boy's heart
For knowledge, so that Philip did not starve.
The Pastor of the parish ruled the school,
And taught the village boys through all the week.
When Sunday came, he fed, or tried to feed,
The flock that gathered in the church's fold.

A kindly man he was, and scholar good;
Eccentric, and with scanty light enough,
He saw, as one with eyes half purged from film,
Men as trees walking. But—nor this mean praise—
He used the light he had up to its measure.
Far better so than have the sun shine clear,
And walk in darkness. No divided flock
Was his. All met together in one house
Of common prayer, from which a single bell,
But sweet, rang softly out across the vale,
And called his charge on Sabbath morns and eves,
To hear their pastor's voice in prayer and psalm,
And in the word of exhortation drawn
From the great Book of God. So here, afar
From towns and cities, passed he useful days.

Young Philip grew in wisdom and in strength.
Upon the little farm his father till'd,
His pleasure 'twas to plough, and sow, and reap,
And here in golden prime of dawning youth,
Pure happiness he drew from sights and sounds
A bounteous nature spread around his home.
He loved the vernal morn, the balmy day,
The shimmer of the leaves, the gliding stream,
The mossy glen, the banks all plumed with fern,
And the smooth lake that lay in calm repose,
Embosomed in the hills that rose around.
He felt the beauty of the fair green earth
In all its changes under sun and cloud;
Or when the moonlight blanched it, and the stars
Looked down in silence on a world asleep;
Or when the storm came roaring down the vale,
Bending the branching pines before its blast,
And churning into white and seething foam
The waters of the lake, lifting on high
Its curling waves, until Winandermere
Grew like an inland sea—dark, dangerous, wild.
When clashed the elements in dreadful war,
And the loud thunder roared among the hills,
And livid lightning leaped from lurid clouds,
Then gave he up his spirit to the scene—
Surrendering himself to time and hour;
Now thrilled with awe, elated now with joy,—
Now filled with triumph, every sense sublimed,
And drawing from the struggle of the storm
A feeling deep of rapture and repose.
Oft stood he with uncovered head amid
The tempest's rage, and as the lightning streamed
Along the troubled sky, and thunders crash'd
As tho' had come the awful Day of doom,
He lowly bowed a reverent head and said,—
“My Father's voice! my Father's voice! How grand!”

Up to this time, when three-and-twenty springs
Had passed full lightly over Philip's head,
His life had glided on a quiet stream,—
Unruffled days, and nights of peaceful rest.
Nothing had chanced to stir the deeper depths
Of a strong nature, on the surface calm;
But capable of passionate emotion,
Intense and keen, and all aglow with fire.
He had escaped as yet love's pleasant pains,—
Its hopes, its fears, its triumph, or defeat;
And though the archer sat in tender eyes
Of village lasses, and from thence shot forth
His arrows, winged with sweet and fond desire,
He passed unscathed upon his happy way.
The darts all glanced aside, and made no wound
In heart that yet was tender as a maid's,
While strong and manly, as becomes a man.

Summer had reached its noon, and sweetest scents
Were blown from fields on which the mower toiled,
Whetting his scythe amongst the new-mown hay;
And roses flushed the hedges, and the air
Was balm, when to the little village came
A widow, with her only living child,—
A maiden, over whose fair head had rolled
Some eighteen years. Her husband had a Cure
Amongst the hills, and far remote from towns,
His means but modest, and his wants but few.
Here for many a year he lived and toiled,
And consecrated all his health and strength
To sacred ministries of love. His joy
It was as one of Christ's ambassadors
To lure men from the world, and lead to God;
And with the pebble and the sling of truth,
To smite some giant falsehood in the brow,
And fell it to the earth. Tender he was,
And true,—a godly man, who felt and lived
The truths he preached; and by the silent force
Of a good life, whose power was holiness,
Drew many after him to Christ and heaven.
As thus he daily walked the world with God,
There came the call which summoned him up higher.
“He was not, for God took him” to Himself,
And poorer was the parish for his loss.
His mourning widow was compelled to leave
Her happy home,—the only home she knew
Since that bright summer morn he proudly bore
Her from the altar as his wedded bride.
So weeping, with her only child, she said
“Farewell” to house and scenes endeared by ties
So firm, so fond, they might be rent in twain,
But always felt and prized. Her means were small,
Enabled her to live, and hardly more.
With these she sought and found a modest place,
Where she might spend her latter days in peace.
Fair home was hers, with rose and ivy wreathed,
And close to Rydal, near the placid lake,
Whose waters mirror Loughrigg in their wave.
Here she and Ellen lived right well content,
Not seeking any, only sought by few.
No fairer maid in all the country round
Than Ellen, and none gentler or more kind.
A heart as open as her brow, a cheek
Where rose and lily blended into one;
Eyes dark and large, and of a wondrous depth,
Liquid and lustrous as the evening star;
And glossy hair as shadowy as the night.
A graceful mien, a light elastic step,
A soul that early had drunk in with joy
All that is written in the Book of God,
Of what is good and true, honest and just,
All lovely things, and things of good report.
Ellen and Philip met,—were friends at once,
Kindred their spirits, and their tastes alike.
They loved the hills, the flow'rs, the whispering woods;
The meadows gemmed with glistening dew, the streams
That flowing from the mountains sought the lake;
Clear noons, and twilight eves, and balmy nights.
The same with books. Here, too, their tastes agreed.
The favourite of one was favourite
Of both; and many a happy hour was spent
Under the branches of a leafy elm,
Which threw cool shadows 'thwart her mother's croft,
Reading such volumes, treasures new and old,
Which friend had lent, or which enriched the shelves
Of Philip's, or of Ellen's cottage home.

And what could all this lead to but one end?
To Philip's life there came an added charm,
Which made his days one happy, blessed spring,—
A May-time, redolent of hope and joy.
And what of Ellen? Only this she knew,
That she was happy; and no thought beyond
Came in to trouble, or to vex her mind
Concerning what might come, or what might be,—
It was enough for her to live, to breathe,
To drink the air, roam over hills and fells,
To feel sweet Nature's influence around,
And walk a world sunned by the smile of God.

Will Vipont was a statesman's son, and near
Akin to Ellen—was indeed her cousin,
Child of her mother's brother; and their homes
From childhood were not far apart, a field
Was all that lay between, where daisies grew,
And where they oft had played, both well content.
Stalwart and tall was Will, good-looking too,
Fonder of rustic sports and games than books;
Well did he love to follow with sure foot
Through brake or o'er the fells the tawny fox,
With sound of horn, and cry of baying hound,
And swiftest of the swift to be in time
To see poor Reynard die. And often too,
When Autumn amber colour laid upon
The hills, and changed their green to gold, his gun
Roused all the echoes with sharp-sounding ring.
Right fond was he of fishing, and knew well
Each freshet, and each cool clear pool where lay
The speckled trout. In temper arrogant,
Though generous; gay, full of spirits, quick;
Was one who valued not himself below
His proper worth, and could not brook to be
Outstripped by others in the race he wished
To win. Withal he was infirm of will,—
Impulsive, wayward, fond of company,
And that, alas,—not always of the best;
Would sit carousing late into the night
When jovial fellows gathered round the board.
From early years his heart went out with all
Its force and strength to Ellen. Though he ruled
All others, he was ruled and swayed by her,
And owned the thraldom of her voice and will.
He never thought of her but as his own;
Took it for granted she would be his wife;
Nor would it have amazed him more to see
The sun stand still from golden noon till eve,
As once on Gibeon,—where it stayed its course
Until the moon with wondering face appeared,
And silvered all the heights of Ajalon,—
Than to hear doubt expressed that Ellen was
To be his wife, and share his future home.
And yet no word between them ever passed
Sealing his hopes as true. No vow did he
Exact, no promise passed his lips or hers;
So safe he thought himself of what he wished.
When Ellen's father died, and she removed
To Rydal, it was just the same. He came
And went at will. Sometimes he stayed for days,
At others not so long, but always found
The welcome of a greeting and a smile.
Now chanced it more than once that when he came
Philip was at the cottage too; and though
At first his visits gave him no concern,
Yet when he chanced again and yet again
To find him there, he liked it not; indeed,
Felt a dark trouble moving at his heart;
And once some bitter words leaped to his lips,
And anger glowed within his eyes, and shook
His voice, which, trembling, grew all hoarse and harsh,
As that of some wild bird, when to his nest,
Where sits his mate upon her callow brood,
Comes one intent to harry or destroy.
Wilfred—for love is quick to see—at once
Felt, “here is rival for sweet Ellen's love,”
And all his heart grew sick and faint with fear.
He thought in William's face he saw his doom,—
That they were more than cousins—more than friends,
And that they loved; that he for all these months
Had fed a hope which like the marish fire
Had only lured him on to dark despair.
On one sad eve he left the cottage with
A heart from which was crushed both hope and life,
And wandered on until the sun had sunk
Behind the hills, and silver steams of mist
Came o'er the valley from the evening dews,
And drew a chilly veil 'twixt earth and sky.
Then home he went, but not to bed or sleep,
For all night through he battled with himself,
And passed the hours in one long agony,
Nor let God go until He bless'd him there,
(As Jacob held the angel at the ford),
And when the Day-spring fringed the hills with light,
It found him on his knees, but calm and still.

Ellen had seen how Will was chafed, that eve
Had marked the fire that burned within his eyes,
And her quick woman's instinct caught the truth
At once; and there came flashing on her mind,
Like to a revelation, feelings—thoughts
That hitherto had dormant lain and still,
As sleeps the lightning veiled within the cloud,
But ever ready to leap forth in flame.
Then o'er her neck and face rushed the warm blood;
And thrilled her heart as she stood quivering there,
And self-revealed. And now she saw the gulf
Which opened at her feet, and on whose brink
She trembled, dizzy with a dreadful fear.
Will marked her agitation, and resolved
To claim her his, at once secure her hand,
And have her promise she should be his wife.
And so he pleaded earnestly his suit,—
Their love from childhood's days, their kinship too;
The silent, if not spoken, hopes she gave
That she was his in heart, and would be his
In marriage,—pleaded on his knees for this.
Prayed her to shine within his home a star
As she already shone within his heart.
She sat all pale before him as he spoke,
Sorrow and pity looking from her eyes
Through tears that gathered there, but did not fall,
Held back by firm resolve, and self-control.
Clearly she knew she did not love the man
That knelt before her, nor could ever love.
That great deep love which, blending into one
Two spirits, welds, and knits them each to each,
And kindles on the altar of the heart
A pure and sacred flame which burns till death,
She never had for William. This was plain
To her, and lay before her just as clear
As lay that last sun-gleam upon the floor.
And this, in answer to his pleading prayer,
She tried to tell him gently as she could,
With tears that now would flow, and voice that shook
And broke in telling. William heard with ear
Which at the first was all incredulous,—
Could not believe—would not believe; and then,
With many a cry, half angry and half sad,
Broke in upon her words, until at last
The bitter truth grew slowly on his mind,
And stung him to the heart, and left his cheek
All blanched, and big drops stood upon his brow.
Then maddened by his anguish, passion-tost,
He spake words fierce and wild, and loaded her
With undeserved reproaches, cursing Philip,
“He claimed her his, and yet would make her his,
Would look upon her as his own till death;
And woe betide the man who dared to come
Between them, or as rival cross his path.”
He left the cottage with a whirling brain
And burning heart, all reckless where he went,
With one wish only, that from the dark cloud
Might burst the thunder, break the lightning flash,
And strike him dead, and Ellen too, and Ray.
Then wretched, stung to agony, and mad,
Sought “The Red Dragon,” and there spent the night
With boon companions in a wild debauch.

To Philip the whole world was as a blank,
And soon his course was shaped. With early dawn
He would be far upon his way from home,
Northward across the border to a friend,
Who occupied a little household farm
Amidst the fertile fields of fair Dumfries.
But ere he went he'd take a long last look
Of Rydal, and the home where Ellen dwelt.

Then as with weary heart and step he passed
Beyond the meadow with its swelling knolls
Of emerald green, where rise the dark-branched pines,
And where, upon the charmed eye, a scene
Of beauty bursts—Loughrigg, the Park, Nab's Scar—
He came to sudden pause, the tell-tale blood
Mounted in crimson eddies to his brow;
For there was Ellen, seated on the bridge
That spans the Rotha's clear and rapid stream.
She was alone, and looking worn and pale,
White as the rose she wore upon her heart;
She saw him coming, started to her feet,
Sat down again, and trembled as a leaf
That shivers on the aspen. Philip stood
A moment all uncertain what to do;
Then joined her, spake some hurried words, confused,
And sat beside her on the little bridge,
And saw the river gliding calm below,
Reflecting in its stream the rosy light
That now began to flush the evening sky.
Scarce knew he what he said; he spake as thro'
A dream, and hardly heard her low replies—
More gave he words to than he meant at first.
Until at length, and all unwittingly,
There came the low confession of his love,
His hopes, his disappointment, and despair.

He never knew—all was so sudden, strange,
Beyond his thought, beyond his wildest dream—
How came the quick revulsion o'er his mind,
How passed the anguish, or how rose the hope
That thrilled him with a joy so keen, it was
Almost akin to pain. O sweet! O sweet!
O maiden blush that mantled o'er the cheek!
O voice all tremulous and low with love!
O soft dark eyes down dropt beneath their lids,
And bright with tears of unexpected joy!

The stars came out in heaven round the moon,
The rapid Rotha rippled with sweet sound,
Making melodious murmurs in their ear;
Whilst in the greenwood-tree the night-thrush sang,
And all the air was laden with sweet scents,
And wafted odours from a balmy night,
Though fresh with eager breath of coming fall.
It seemed as if at one great sudden bound
Earth had been lost, and Paradise regained.
Long hours had passed since Michael's house was still,
When Philip, sleepless, and his bed unpressed,
Threw ope his casement, leaned into the night,
And heard the river, and one bird's sweet song.
Then looked he on the skies aglow with stars,
And saw the flashing of the northern lights,
That spread like flame along the cloudless vault—
A bright Auroral glory like the dawn,—
It seem'd as tho' thro' thin transparent skies
There burst the shinings of the golden streets,
Which made the heavens a splendour far and near;
Then flow'd his heart in song, but low and soft,
As singing to himself, with none to hear;—

Philip and Ellen met full often now;
But 'midst their happiness a shade at times
Cross'd Ellen's brow. She thought of William's love,
And how unconsciously she had beguiled
Him into thinking that it was returned.
This often laid a weight upon her heart.
Nor could she e'er forget words once he spake,—
“He claimed her his, by silent sanction given
To love she must have known was always hers;
And by the years through which this one hope ran
A golden thread in all his web of life,
That he should at the altar make her his.”
“Remove the thread,” he said, and “his would be
A spoiled and ravelled life, without an aim,
All tangled, wild, all meaningless, confused.”
She had not thought of this in her first joy—
A joy so great, like Aaron's mystic rod,
It every other thought and care absorbed,
And stood out in its magnitude alone.
But now came memories which vexed her mind,
And wrought upon her so, she made resolve
Never to wed till William should declare
Her free, or wed himself some other maid.
Philip she would release if he so pleased,
Nor bind him to a service for her sake
That might run out the years that Jacob served
For Rachel. Philip did not please. His love
For Ellen was as true, as deep, as fond,
As ever stirred within the breast of man.
Wait seven years? Fourteen? Aye, twice fourteen,
And then feel overpaid by that sweet day
On which God gave him Ellen as a wife.

So passed the days, the weeks, the months,
Yet not without sweet solace as they passed.
Will Vipont now to Rydal seldom came,
His visits were but brief, and left behind
Much pain to all who cared most for the man—
Rumours there were of wild and reckless hours
Spent with the worst, of drinking-bouts held long
Through night, till morning thro' the casement looked
And blushed to find a shameless crew still there,—
Oh, cursed vice! more cruel than the grave!
Oh, shameful fetters, forged in fires of hell!
Oh, frightful source of sorrow and disease
Of crime, starvation, devilry, and death.
Scarcely a winter passed within the Vale
But some man fell a victim to this vice,
And staggered drunken to God's judgment-seat,
Uncalled, untimely, unprepared to die.
Often, in bitter anguish of remorse,
That tore the heart as with a vulture's beak,
Because of wife and children slowly starved,
Some wretch would rush on death; and from the Lake
A ghastly face was drawn—white, wan, and cold—
Which shrouded in the sere-cloths of the tomb,
Was laid, with bleeding of the heart, and tears,
And hopeless sorrow, in a drunkard's grave.

William, this autumn, came to Ambleside,
Reckless as ever, riotous and wild;
Masking a wretched heart in borrowed smiles,
The wreck of his old self, with hollow laugh,
That rang all false like base and bastard coin.
One morning, after bout the night before,
He took a bright young boy, son of a friend—
A boy of promise whom he loved right well,
Resolved to have a day on Windermere,
And cool with mountain air his fevered head.
The morn was threatening dark with heavy clouds,
Bitter with whistling winds that boded storm.
Friends warned him not to go, to bide within,
Nor venture on the Lake, which showed great waves
And beat in angry murmurs 'gainst the shore.
Not he, he would not stay; he knew not fear,
Laughed at all dangers, liked the wind and storm,
And hoped a blast might blow from all the hills,
And churn the waves to foam, and fill the sails,
And drive the dancing boat along the flood.
Yes, Lancelot, the boy, should come along.
This Lancelot was his mother's only child,
And she a widow. All her yearning heart
Was in the lad. He was her age's stay,
The only tie that bound her to the world.
Naught knew she of this visit to the Lake;
Else would have laid commands on Lancelot,
And kept him with her, but she was not told;
And, truth to say, the boy liked well the sport,
And though his mother's wish had kept him back,
Yet nothing loth, and fearless of all ill,
He gladly went with William to the boat.
They launched, and hoisted sail, and for a time
The little yacht went gallantly along,
And danced and leaped upon the curling waves.
William enjoyed the motion, and the breeze,
Which brought the colour to his faded cheek,
And fanned his face, and stirred his hair, and made
His blood course quickly thro' his stalwart frame;
While Lancelot laughed, and shouted in his glee.

So for a time. But now a tempest rose;
Blowing in gusty squalls down all the hills,
Which wrought the waters into sheets of foam,
And caught the sails with such an angry blast,
And smote the boat so heavily on the side,
That first she plunged beneath the swelling waves,
Then righted, struggling like a living thing,
Then turning over, filled, and quickly sank.
William and Lancelot were now both sucked down
Beneath the surging waves. When William rose
He battled, as men battle for dear life.
Good swimmer was he; with an arm was made
To buffet the great waves, and beat them back,
And use them as strong oars to help him on.
Need had he now of all his strength and skill;
For did not heart and hope keep bravely up,
A watery grave would claim him for its prey.
Before he struck out for the shore, he looked
For Lancelot, but rose Lancelot never more;
Stunned peradventure by the falling mast,
Or caught in tackling of the boat, or sail—
So held by death, that would not let him go.
William, with one last look that scann'd the waves
But saw not him he looked for, then struck out,
Nor ever would have reached the land,
Had not a boat, manned by four gallant men,
Put out from shore, and brought the needed help,
And snatching from the waves the exhausted man,
In safety landed him at Waterhead.
There many of the villagers had come,
Fearful and anxious; and amongst them all
Poor Lancelot's mother, wan as any corpse.
“My boy! my boy!” she cried, and wrung her hands,
And as her grey hairs streamed upon the wind,
And tears chased one another down her cheek,
Her passionate cry was heard in every lull,
“My boy! my boy! my Lancelot! save my boy!”
And on her knees she sank, and raised her eyes
To heav'n, and prayed for pity, prayed that God
Would spare her son, her only hope, her joy.
When the boat grounded on the strand, she rushed
With eager step and hungry eyes, to look,
To search, for one loved object; and when, alas!
She saw that William was alone, a shrill
Sharp shriek of anguish broke from heart and lips—
A cry, that in its wild despair rang loud
In William's ear for many a bitter day.
And still, “My boy! my Lancelot!” was her cry;
And then she swooned, and pitying neighbours bore
Her to a lonely home, and laid her there
On bed she never left till carried thence,
To rest beside the husband of her youth
In the churchyard that crowns the Chapel Hill.
The body of young Lancelot was found
The day before his mother's funeral.
One bell was tolled for both, one service read
For mother and for son. And now they sleep
Close to each other in one common grave.
And William,—oh the sorrow and regret,
The bitter sorrow, and the wild regret,
The self-reproach, the dire remorse, the woe!
'Twere vain to picture his great agony,
Or tell the grief that like a living fire
Preyed on his heart, and burnt into his brain.
And better still, when the first horror passed,
There came a calmer time of penitence,
And healing tears, and prayers, and cries for grace,
As the full rush of shame and sorrow swept
Across his mind. The boy he loved so well!

Was he not guilty of poor Lancelot's death?
His mother's too, who, broken-hearted, killed
By the great desolation of her home,
Went sorrowing and childless to the grave.
The Alehouse, how he cursed it in his heart,
And how he loathed himself for all his sin.
There was one night he spent alone in prayer,
In weeping, and in conflict sharp as death.
From out the dead forgotten past there rose
The ghosts of sin that shook his soul with dread.
The buried vice, the long-forgotten scoff,
The selfish lust, the oath, the drunkenness;
And as they came before him at the call
Of conscience—came, a ghastly company—
It seem'd if hell already had begun;
The gnawing anguish of the deathless worm,
The scathing torture of the quenchless fire.
With God he wrestled till the break of day;
And when the morning looked in at his room,
His chamber had become a Peniel,
Where he and Christ had met each face to face,
And whence he went a humbled, contrite man.

When genial spring returned with vernal flowers,
And May was in her beauty and her bloom,
When larks were singing in the cloudless blue,
And in the woods the cuckoo's voice was heard,
When hyacinths were trembling in the glade,
And violets sweet were scenting all the banks,
When the pale primrose starr'd the shady ways,
One golden morn the village was astir,
And all seemed ready for a holiday.
Neighbours were seen in gossip at their doors,
The children of the schools, clad in their best,
Held lapfuls of sweet flowers, or carried them
In rustic baskets; on all faces shone
The bright reflection of some holiday.
It was the morn when Philip was to stand
With Ellen at the altar as his bride.
The future lay before them one rich land
Of promise, where the milk and honey flowed;
For they were one in heart, in faith, in hope—
In all that sheds a brightness on the world,
Or gilds the far eternity with joy.
And so she placed her hand in his with trust,
And went they forth from that rude house of prayer,
With God's own blessing resting on their heads,
To walk for years in happy bonds of love,
While children sprang around their path like flowers,
To call them bless'd, and crown their marriage joy.