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He soon replied, I do admire
Then over all, that he might be Of womankind but one,
Equipped from top to toe, And you are she, my dearest dear,
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, Therefore it shall be done.
He manfully did throw. I am a linen-draper bold,
Now see him mounted once again As all the world doth know,
mble steed, And my good friend the calender
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, Will lend his horse to go.
With caution and good heed. Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, That's well said;
But finding soon a smoother road And, for that wine is dear,
Beneath his well-shod feet, We will be furnished with our own,
The snorting beast began to trot, Which is both bright and clear.
Which galled him in his seat. John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
So, fair and softly, John he cried, O'erjoyed was he to find
But John he cried in vain; That, though on pleasure she was bent,
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands, Should say that she was proud.
And eke with all his might. So three doors off the chaise was stayed,
His horse, who never in that sort Where they did all get in;
Had handled been before, Six precious souls, and all agog
What thing upon his back had got To dash through thick and thin.
Did wonder more and more. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Were never folk so glad,
Away went hat and wig; The stones did rattle underneath,
He little dreamt when he set out, As if Cheapside were mad.
Of running such a rig. John Gilpin at his horse's side
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly Seized fast the flowing mane,
Like streamer long and gay, And up he got, in haste to ride,
Till, loop and button failing both, But soon came down again;
At last it flew away. For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,
Then might all people well discern His journey to begin,
The bottles he had slung; When, turning round his head, he saw
A bottle swinging at each side, Three customers come in.
As hath been said or sung. So down he came; for loss of time,
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Although it grieved him sore;
Up flew the windows all; Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
And every soul cried out, Well done! Would trouble him much more.
As loud as he could bawl. 'Twas long before the customers
Away went Gilpin-who but he ? Were suited to their mind,
His fame soon spread around, When Betty screaming came down stairs,
He carries weight! he rides a race! “ The wine is left behind!"
'Tis for a thousand pound! Good lack ! quoth he-yet bring it me,
And still, as fast as he drew near, My leathern belt likewise,
'Twas wonderful to view In which I bear my trusty sword
How in a trice the turnpike men When I do exercise.
Their gates wide open threw. Now mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)
And now, as he went bowing down Had two stone bottles found,
His reeking head full low, To hold the liquor that she loved,
The bottles twain behind his back And keep it safe and sound.
Were shattered at a blow. Each bottle had a curling ear,
Down ran the wine into the road, Through which the belt he drew,
Most piteous to be seen, And hung a bottle on each side,
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke, To make his balance true.
As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight,
He held them up, and in his turn With leathern girdle braced ;
Thus showed his ready wit, For all might see the bottle-necks
My head is twice as big as yours, Still dangling at his waist.
They therefore needs must fit. Thus all through merry Islington
But let me scrape the dirt away, These gambols he did play,
That hangs upon your face; Until he came unto the Wash
And stop and eat, for well you may Of Edmonton so gay:
Be in a hungry case. And there he threw the wash about
Said John, it is my wedding-day, On both sides of the way,
And all the world would stare Just like unto a trundling mop,
If wife should dine at Edmonton, Or a wild goose at play.
And I should dine at Ware. At Edmonton his loving wife
So turning to his horse, he said, From the balcony spied
I am in haste to dine; Her tender husband, wondering much
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, To see how he did ride.
You shall go back for mine. Stop, stop, John Gilpin !-Here's the house- Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast ? They all at once did cry;
For which he paid full dear; The dinner waits, and we are tired:
For, while he spake, a braying ass Said Gilpin-So am I!
Did sing most loud and clear; But yet his horse was not a whit
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Inclined to tarry there;
Had heard a lion roar, For why?-his owner had a house
And galloped off with all his might, Full ten miles off, at Ware.
As he had done before. So like an arrow swift he flew,
Away went Gilpin, and away Shot by an archer strong;
Went Gilpin's hat and wig. So did he fly—which brings me to
He lost them sooner than at first, The middle of my song.
For why?—they were too big. Away went Gilpin out of breath,
Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw And sore against his will,
Her husband posting down Till at his friend the calender's
Into the country far away, His horse at last stood still.
She pulled out half a crown; The calender, amazed to see
And thus unto the youth she said, His neighbour in such trim,
That drove them to the Bell, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
This shall be yours when you bring back And thus accosted him.
My husband safe and well. What news? what news? your tidings tell;
The youth did ride, and soon did meet Tell me you must and shall
John coming back amain; Say why bare-headed you are come,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop, Or why you come at all?
By catching at his rein; Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
But not performing what he meant, And loved a timely joke!
And gladly would have done, And thus unto the calender
The frighted steed he frighted more, In merry guise he spoke:
And made him faster run. I came because your horse would come;
Away went Gilpin, and away And, if I well forbode,
Went post-boy at his heels, My hat and wig will soon be here,
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss They are upon the road.
The lumbering of the wheels. The calender, right glad to find
Six gentlemen upon the road His friend in merry pin,
Thus seeing Gilpin tly, Returned him not a single word,
With post-boy scampering in the rear, But to the house went in;
They raised the hue and cry: Whence straight he came with hat and wig; Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman! A wig that flowed behind,
Not one of them was mute; A hat not much the worse for wear,
And all and each that passed that way Each comely in its kind.
Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again
Their length and colour from the locks they spare; Flew open in short space;
The elastic spring of an unwearied foot, The toll-men thinking as before
That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That Gilpin rode a race.
That play of lungs, inhaling and again
Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes And so he did, and won it too,
Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, For he got first to town;
Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired Nor stopped till where he had got up
My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed He did again get down.
Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find Now let us sing, long live the king,
Still soothing, and of power to charm me still.
And witness, dear companiou of my walks, And Gilpin long live he;
Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive And, when he next doth ride abroad,
Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, May I be there to see!
Confirmed by long experience of thy worth
Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.
Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, And that my raptures are not conjured up Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he, To serve occasions of poetic pomp, Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour But genuine, and art partner of them all. To sleep within the carriage more secure,
How oft upon yon eminence our pace His legs depending at the open door.
Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,
The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, The tedious rector drawling over his head;
While admiration, feeding at the eye, And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned Nor his, who quits the box at midnight hour The distant plough still moving, and beside To slumber in the carriage more secure,
His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,
The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,
Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Compared with the repose the sofa yields.
Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Oh may I live exempted (while I live
Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)
Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe
Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, Of libertine excess. The sofa suits
That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,
While far beyond, and overthwart the stream Though on a sofa, may I never feel :
That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, For I have loved the rural walk through lanes The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Of grassy swarth, close cropt by nibbling sheep, Displaying on its varied side the grace And skirted thick with intertexture firm
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells O’er hills, through vallies, and by rivers' brink, Just undulates upon the listening ear, E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds
Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames; Scenes must be beautiful, which daily viewed And still remember, nor without regret
Please daily, and whose novelty survives Of hours, that sorrow since has much endeared : Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years; How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, Praise justly due to those that I describe. Still hungering, pennyless, and far from home, Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,
Exhilirate the spirit, and restore Or blushing crabs, or berries, that imboss
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike Disdains not; nor the palate, undepraved
The dash of ocean on his winding shore, By culinary arts, unsavory deems.
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; No sofa then awaited my return;
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, Nor sofa then I needed. Youth repairs
And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil
Nor less composure waits upon the roar Incurring short fatigue; and, though our years, Of distant floods, or on the softer voice As life declines, speed rapidly away,
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip And not a year but pilfers as he goes
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Some youthful grace, that age would gladly keep, Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length A tooth or auburn lock; and by degrees
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,
Its own revolvency upholds the world. But animated nature sweeter still,
Winds from all quarters agitate the air, To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
And fit the limpid element for use,
Ey restless undulation: even the oak
He seems indeed indignant, and to feel
The impression of the blast with proud disdain, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, He held the thunder: but the monarch owes Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, His firm stability to what he scorns, And only there, please highly for their sake. More fixt below, the more disturbed above.
The law, by which all creatures else are bound,
Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives ON THE TOWN AND COUNTRY.
No mean advantage from a kindred cause, Hence the declivity is sharp and short,
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. And such the re-ascent; between them weeps The sedentary stretch their lazy length A little naiad her impoverished urn
When custom bids, but no refreshment find, All summer long, which winter fills again.
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek The folded gates would bar my progress now,
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,
And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, Communicative of the good he owns,
Reproach their owner with that love of rest,
To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.
And theirs alone seems worthy of the name.
Good health, and, its associate in the most, Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn
Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; That yet a remnant of your race survives.
The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; How airy and how light the graceful arch,
Even age itself seems privileged in them, Yet awful as the consecrated roof
With clear exemption from its own defects. Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
a The chequered earth seems restless as a flood The veteran shows, and, gracing a gray beard Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
Like a coy maiden, ease, when courted most, And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrine Play wanton, every moment, every spot. [cheered, Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.
And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, Is nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, With curvature of slow and easy sweep
Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, Deception innocent-give ample space
Renounce the odours of the open field To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;
For the unscented fictions of the loom ; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, We may discern the thresher at his task.
Prefer to the performance of a God
Lovely indeed the mimic works of art;
None more admires the painter's magic skill, Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam.
Who shows me that which I shall never see,
But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet Nature's every sense. Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.
The air salubrious of her lofty hills, By ceaseless action all that is subsists.
The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel
And music of her woods-no works of man That nature rides upon maintains her health,
May rival these, these all bespeak a power Her beauty; her fertility. She dreads
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.
Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams 'Tis free to ali—'tis every day renewed;
Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
The peasant too, a witness of his song, He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long
Himself a songster, is as gay as he. In some uuwholesome dungeon, and a prey
But save me from the gaiety of those, To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank
Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed; And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes Escapes at last to liberty and light:
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue;
For property stripped off by cruel chance; His eye relumines its extinguished fires;
From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain, He walks, he leaps, he runs—is winged with joy, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. And riots in the sweets of every breeze.
The earth was made so various, that the mind He does not scorn it, who has long endured
Of desultory man, studious of change, A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.
And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed
Prospects, however lovely, may be seen With acrid salts; his very heart athirst
Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, To gaze at nature in her green array.
Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. With visions prompted by intense desire:
Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale, Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Far distant, such as he would die to find
Delight us; happy to renounce awhile, He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;
That such short absence may endear it more. The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,
Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort,
That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts And mar, the face of beauty, when no cause
Above the reach of man. His hoary head, For such immeasurable woe appears,
Conspicuous many a league, the mariner These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
Bound homeward, and in hope already there, Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist It is the constant revolution, stale
A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows, And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
And at his feet the baffled billows die. Thnt palls and satiates, and makes languid life The common, overgrown with fern, and rough A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer duwn. With prickly gorse, that shapeless and deformed, Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart
And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast
And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Is famished-finds no music in the song,
Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Smells fresh, and rich in odoriferous herbs Yet thousands still desire to journey on,
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. With luxury of unexpected sweets. The paralytic, who can hold her cards,
There often wanders one, whom better days But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort
With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound. Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits,
A serving maid was she, and fell in love Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad
With one who left her, went to sea, and died. And silent cypher, while her proxy plays.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves Others are dragged into the crowded room
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep Between supporters; and, once seated, sit,
At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Through downright inability to rise,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.
Would oft anticipate his glad return, These speak a loud memento. Yet even these And dream of transports she was not to know. Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he
She heard the doleful tidings of his deathThat overhangs a torrent to a twig.
And never smiled again! and now she roams They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,
The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.
And there, unless when charity forbids, Then wherefore not renounce them ? No—the dread, The livelong night. A tattered apron hides, The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,
More tattered still; and both but ill conceal And their inveterate habits, all forbid.
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
Aud hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, The innocent are gay-the lark is gay,
Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier That dries his feathers, saturate with dew,