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OR

DUNGEON-GILL FORCE

A PASTORAL.

I.

The valley rings with mirth and joy,

Among the hills the Echoes play

A never, never ending song

To welcome in the May.

The Magpie chatters with delight;

The mountain Raven’s youngling Brood

Have left the Mother and the Nest,

And they go rambling east and west

In search of their own food,

Or thro’ the glittering Vapors dart

In very wantonness of Heart.

II.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,

Two Boys are sitting in the sun;

It seems they have no work to do

Or that their work is done.

On pipes of sycamore they play

The fragments of a Christmas Hymn,

Or with that plant which in our dale

We call Stag-horn, or Fox’s Tail

Their rusty Hats they trim:

And thus as happy as the Day,

Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III.

Along the river’s stony marge

The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;

The thrush is busy in the Wood,

And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,

All newly born! both earth and sky

Keep jubilee, and more than all,

Those Boys with their green Coronal,

They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.

IV.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,

”Down to the stump of yon old yew

I’ll run with you a race.” — No more —

Away the Shepherds flew.

They leapt, they ran, and when they came

Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,

Seeing, that he should lose the prize,

”Stop!” to his comrade Walter cries —

James stopp’d with no good will:

Said Walter then, “Your task is here,

’Twill keep you working half a year.”

V.

”Till you have cross’d where I shall cross,

Say that you’ll neither sleep nor eat.”

James proudly took him at his word,

But did not like the feat.

It was a spot, which you may see

If ever you to Langdale go:

Into a chasm a mighty Block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;

The gulph is deep below,

And in a bason black and small

Receives a lofty Waterfall.

VI.

With staff in hand across the cleft

The Challenger began his march;

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain’d

The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan —

Again! his heart within him dies —

His pulse is stopp’d, his breath is lost,

He totters, pale as any ghost,

And, looking down, he spies

A Lamb, that in the pool is pent

Within that black and frightful rent.

VII.

The Lamb had slipp’d into the stream,

And safe without a bruise or wound

The Cataract had borne him down

Into the gulph profound,

His dam had seen him when he fell,

She saw him down the torrent borne;

And while with all a mother’s love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The Lamb, still swimming round and round

Made answer to that plaintive sound.

VIII.

When he had learnt, what thing it was,

That sent this rueful cry; I ween,

The Boy recover’d heart, and told

The sight which he had seen.

Both gladly now deferr’d their task;

Nor was there wanting other aid —

A Poet, one who loves the brooks

Far better than the sages’ books,

By chance had thither stray’d;

And there the helpless Lamb he found

By those huge rocks encompass’d round.

IX.

He drew it gently from the pool,

And brought it forth into the light;

The Shepherds met him with his charge

An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the Lamb they took,

Said they, “He’s neither maim’d nor scarr’d” —

Then up the steep ascent they hied

And placed him at his Mother’s side;

And gently did the Bard

Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,

And bade them better mind their trade.

’Tis said, that some have died for love:

And here and there a churchyard grave is found

In the cold North’s unhallow’d 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;

But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves,

When will that dying murmur be suppress’d?

Your sound my heart of peace bereaves,

It robs my heart of rest.

Thou Thrush, that singest loud and loud and free,

Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or chuse another tree

Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds,

And there for ever be thy waters chain’d!

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That cannot be sustain’d;

If still beneath that pine-tree’s ragged bough

Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb! —

Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.

Thou Eglantine whose arch so proudly towers

(Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale)

Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,

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

Is one of giant stature, who could dance

Equipp’d from head to foot in iron mail.

Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine

To store up kindred hours for me, thy face

Turn from me, gentle Love, nor let me walk

Within the sound of Emma’s voice, or know

Such happiness as I have known to-day.