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      Left upon a seat in a YEW-TREE, which stands near the Lake of ESTHWAITE, on a desolate part of the shore, yet commanding a beautiful prospect.

      — Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands

       Far from all human dwelling: what if here

       No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;

       What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;

       Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,

       That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind

       By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

      — Who he was

       That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod

       First covered o’er and taught this aged tree

       With its dark arms to form a circling bower,

       I well remember. — He was one who owned

       No common soul. In youth by science nursed

       And led by nature into a wild scene

       Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth,

       A favored being, knowing no desire

       Which genius did not hallow, ‘gainst the taint

       Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate

       And scorn, against all enemies prepared.

       All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,

       Owed him no service: he was like a plant

       Fair to the sun, the darling of the winds,

       But hung with fruit which no one, that passed by,

       Regarded, and, his spirit damped at once,

       With indignation did he turn away

       And with the food of pride sustained his soul

       In solitude. — Stranger! these gloomy boughs

       Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,

       His only visitants a straggling sheep,

       The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;

       And on these barren rocks, with juniper,

       And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,

       Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour

       A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here

       An emblem of his own unfruitful life:

       And lifting up his head, he then would gaze

       On the more distant scene; how lovely ‘tis

       Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became

       Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain

       The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time

       When Nature had subdued him to herself

       Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,

       Warm from the labours of benevolence,

       The world, and man himself, appeared a scene

       Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh

       With mournful joy, to think that others felt

       What he must never feel: and so, lost man!

       On visionary views would fancy feed,

       Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale

       He died, this seat his only monument.

      If thou be one whose heart the holy forms

       Of young imagination have kept pure,

       Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride,

       Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,

       Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt

       For any living thing, hath faculties

       Which he has never used; that thought with him

       Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye

       Is ever on himself, doth look on one,

       The least of nature’s works, one who might move

       The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds

       Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou!

       Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,

       True dignity abides with him alone

       Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,

       Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

       In lowliness of heart.

      THE FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE.

       A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse.

      But that entrance, Mother!

FOSTER-MOTHER.

       Table of Contents

      By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

      Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

      MARIA.

      No one.

      FOSTER-MOTHER.

      My husband’s father told it me,

       Poor old Leoni! — Angels rest his soul!

       He was a woodman, and could fell and saw

       With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam

       Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?

       Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree

       He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined

       With thistle beards, and such small locks of wool

       As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,

       And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost.

       And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,

       A pretty boy, but most unteachable —

       And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead.

       But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,

       And whistled, as he were a bird himself:

       And all the autumn ‘twas his only play

       To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them

       With earth and water, on the stumps of trees.

       A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,

       A grey-haired man — he loved this little boy,

       The boy loved him — and, when the Friar taught him,

       He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,

       Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.

       So he became a very learned youth.

       But Oh! poor wretch! — he read, and read, and read,

       Till his brain turned — and ere his twentieth year,

       He had unlawful thoughts of many things:

       And though he prayed, he never loved to pray

       With holy men, nor in a holy place —

       But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,

       The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him.

       And once, as by the north side of the Chapel

       They stood together, chained in deep discourse,

       The earth heaved under them with such a groan,

       That the wall tottered, and

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