OLIVE-BOUGH Once hung, a Poet harbours now, A simple water-drinking Bard; 60 Why need our Hero then (though frail His best resolves) be on his guard? He marches by, secure and bold; Yet while he thinks on times of old, It seems that all looks wondrous cold; 65 He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head, And, for the honest folk within, It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead! _Here_ is no danger,--none at all! 70 Beyond his wish he walks secure; [11] But pass a mile--and
then for trial,-- Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call; 75 If he resist those casement panes, And that bright gleam which thence will fall Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, Inviting him with cheerful lure: For still, though all be dark elsewhere, 80 Some shining notice will be 'there' Of open house and ready fare. 155 The place to Benjamin right well [12] Is known, and by as strong a spell As used to be that sign of love 85 And hope--the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE; He knows it to his cost, good Man! Who does not know the famous SWAN? Object uncouth! and yet our boast, [13] For it was painted by the Host; 90 His own conceit the figure planned, 'Twas coloured all by his own hand; And that frail Child of thirsty clay, Of whom I sing [14] this rustic lay, Could tell with self-dissatisfaction 95 Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! [C] Well! that is past--and in despite Of open door and shining light. And now the conqueror essays The long ascent of Dunmail-raise; 100 And with his team is gentle here As when he clomb from Rydal Mere; His whip they do not dread--his voice They only hear it to rejoice. To stand or go is at
their pleasure; 105 Their efforts and their time they measure By generous pride within the breast; And, while they strain, and while they rest, He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure. 156 Now am I fairly safe to-night--110 And with proud cause my heart is light: [15] I trespassed lately worse than ever-- But Heaven has blest [16] a good endeavour; And, to my soul's content, [17] I find The evil One is left behind. 115 Yes, let my master fume and fret, Here am I--with my horses yet! My jolly team, he finds that ye Will work for nobody but me! Full proof of this the Country gained; 120 It knows how ye were vexed and strained, And forced unworthy stripes to bear, When trusted to another's care. [18] Here was it--on this rugged slope, Which now ye climb with heart and hope, 125 I saw you, between rage and fear, Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear, And ever more and more confused, As ye were more and more abused: [19] As chance would have it, passing by 130 I saw you in that [20] jeopardy: A word from me was like a charm; [D] Ye pulled together with one mind; [21] And your huge burthen, safe from harm, Moved like a vessel in the wind! 135 --Yes, without me, up hills so high 'Tis vain to strive for mastery. 157 Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough The road we travel, steep, and rough; [22] Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise, 140 And all their fellow banks and braes, Full often make you stretch and strain, And halt for breath and halt again, Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing That side by side we still are going! 145 While Benjamin in earnest mood His meditations thus pursued, A storm, which had been smothered long, Was growing inwardly more strong; And, in its struggles to get free, 150 Was busily employed as he. The thunder had begun to growl-- He heard not, too intent of soul; The air was now without a breath-- He marked not that 'twas still as death. 155 But soon large rain-drops on his head [23] Fell with the weight of drops of lead;-- He starts--and takes, at the admonition, A sage survey of his condition. [24] The road is black before his eyes, 160 Glimmering faintly where it lies; Black is the sky--and every hill, Up to the sky, is blacker still-- Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, [25] Hung round and overhung with gloom; 165 158 Save that above a single height Is to be seen a lurid light, Above Helm-crag [E]--a streak half dead, A burning of portentous red; And near that lurid light, full well 170 The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel, Where at his desk and book he sits, Puzzling aloft [26] his curious wits; He whose domain is held in common With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN, 175 Cowering beside her rifted cell, As if intent on magic spell;- Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather, Still sit upon Helm-crag together! The ASTROLOGER was not unseen 180 By solitary Benjamin; But total darkness came anon, And he and every thing was gone: And suddenly a ruffling breeze, (That would have rocked the sounding trees 185 Had aught of sylvan growth been there) Swept through the Hollow long and bare: [27] The rain rushed down--the road was battered, As with the force of billows shattered; The horses are dismayed, nor know 190 Whether they should stand or go; And Benjamin is groping near them, Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them. 159 He is astounded,--wonder not,-- With such a charge in such a spot; 195 Astounded in the mountain gap With thunder-peals, clap after clap, Close-treading on the silent flashes-- And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes [28] Among the rocks; with weight of rain, 200 And sullen [29] motions long and slow, That to a dreary distance go-- Till, breaking in upon the dying strain, A rending o'er his head begins the fray again. Meanwhile, uncertain what to do, 205 And oftentimes compelled to halt, The horses cautiously pursue Their way, without mishap or fault; And now have reached that pile of stones, Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones; 210 He who had once supreme command, Last king of rocky Cumberland; His bones, and those of all his Power, Slain here in a disastrous hour! When, passing through this narrow strait, 215 Stony, and dark, and desolate, Benjamin can faintly hear A voice that comes from some one near, A female voice:--"Whoe'er you be, Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!" 220 160 And, less in pity than in wonder, Amid the darkness and the thunder, The Waggoner, with prompt command, Summons his horses to a stand. While, with increasing agitation, 225 The Woman urged her supplication, In rueful words, with sobs between-- The voice of tears that fell unseen; [30] There came a flash--a startling glare, And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 230 'Tis not a time for nice suggestion, And Benjamin, without a question, Taking her for some way-worn rover, [31] Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!" Another voice, in tone as hoarse 235 As a swoln brook with rugged course, Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast? I've had a glimpse of you--'avast!' Or, since it suits you to be civil, Take her at once--for good and evil!" 240 "It is my Husband," softly said The Woman, as if half afraid: By this time she was snug within, Through help of honest Benjamin; She and her Babe, which to her breast 245 With thankfulness the Mother pressed; And now the same strong voice more near 161 Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer? Rough doings these! as God's my judge, The sky owes somebody a grudge! 250 We've had in half an hour or less A twelvemonth's terror [32] and distress!" Then Benjamin entreats the Man Would mount, too, quickly as he can: The Sailor--Sailor now no more, 255 But such he had been heretofore-- To courteous Benjamin replied, "Go you your way, and mind not me; For I must have, whate'er betide, My Ass and fifty things beside,--260 Go, and I'll follow speedily!" The Waggon moves--and with its load Descends along the sloping road; And the rough Sailor instantly Turns to a little tent hard by: [33] 265 For when, at closing-in of day, The family had come that way, Green pasture and the soft warm air Tempted [34] them to settle there.-- Green is the grass for beast to graze, 270 Around the stones of Dunmail-raise! The Sailor gathers up his bed, Takes down the canvass overhead; 162 And, after farewell to the place, A parting word--though not of grace, 275 Pursues, with Ass and all his store, The way the Waggon went before. CANTO SECOND If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer, As lowly as the lowliest dwelling, Had, with its belfry's humble stock, 280 A little pair that hang in air, Been mistress also of a clock, (And one, too, not in crazy plight) Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling Under the brow of old Helvellyn--285 Its bead-roll of midnight, Then, when the Hero of my tale Was passing by, and, down the vale (The vale now silent, hushed I ween As if a storm had never been) 290 Proceeding with a mind at ease; While the old Familiar of the seas [35] Intent to use his utmost haste, Gained ground upon the Waggon fast, And gives another lusty cheer; 295 For spite of rumbling of the wheels, 163 A welcome greeting he can hear;-- It is a fiddle in its glee Dinning from the CHERRY TREE! Thence the sound--the light is there--300 As Benjamin is now aware, Who, to his inward thoughts confined, Had almost reached the festive door, When, startled by the Sailor's roar, [36] He hears a sound and sees the light, 305 And in a moment calls to mind That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT! [F] Although before in no dejection, At this insidious recollection His heart with sudden joy is filled,--310 His ears are by the music thrilled, His eyes take pleasure in the road Glittering before him bright and broad; And Benjamin is wet and cold, And there are reasons manifold 315 That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning, Look fairly like a lawful earning. Nor has thought time to come and go, To vibrate between yes and no; For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance 320 That blew us hither!--let him dance, Who can or will!--my honest soul, 164 Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" [37] He draws him to the door--"Come in, Come, come," cries he to Benjamin!
