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wearily,

       I went my work about.

       Ofttimes I thought to run away;

       For me it was a woeful day.

      Sir! ‘twas a precious flock to me,

       As dear as my own children be;

       For daily with my growing store

       I loved my children more and more.

       Alas! it was an evil time;

       God cursed me in my sore distress,

       I prayed, yet every day I thought

       I loved my children less;

       And every week, and every day,

       My flock, it seemed to melt away.

      They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!

       From ten to five, from five to three,

       A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;

       And then at last, from three to two;

       And of my fifty, yesterday

       I had but only one,

       And here it lies upon my arm,

       Alas! and I have none;

       To-day I fetched it from the rock;

       It is the last of all my flock.”

THE DUNGEON

       Table of Contents

      By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

      And this place our forefathers made for man!

       This is the process of our love and wisdom,

       To each poor brother who offends against us —

       Most innocent, perhaps — and what if guilty?

       Is this the only cure? Merciful God?

       Each pore and natural outlet shrivell’d up

       By ignorance and parching poverty,

       His energies roll back upon his heart,

       And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,

       They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;

       Then we call in our pamper’d mountebanks —

       And this is their best cure! uncomforted

       And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,

       And savage faces, at the clanking hour,

       Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,

       By the lamp’s dismal twilight! So he lies

       Circled with evil, till his very soul

       Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed

       By sights of ever more deformity!

      With other ministrations thou, O nature!

       Healest thy wandering and distempered child:

       Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,

       Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,

       Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,

       Till he relent, and can no more endure

       To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,

       Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;

       But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,

       His angry spirit healed and harmonized

       By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

THE MAD MOTHER

       Table of Contents

      Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,

       The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,

       Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,

       And she came far from over the main.

       She has a baby on her arm,

       Or else she were alone;

       And underneath the hay-stack warm,

       And on the greenwood stone,

       She talked and sung the woods among;

       And it was in the English tongue.

      “Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,

       But nay, my heart is far too glad;

       And I am happy when I sing

       Full many a sad and doleful thing:

       Then, lovely baby, do not fear!

       I pray thee have no fear of me,

       But, safe as in a cradle, here

       My lovely baby! thou shalt be,

       To thee I know too much I owe;

       I cannot work thee any woe.

      A fire was once within my brain;

       And in my head a dull, dull pain;

       And fiendish faces one, two, three,

       Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.

       But then there came a sight of joy;

       It came at once to do me good;

       I waked, and saw my little boy,

       My little boy of flesh and blood;

       Oh joy for me that sight to see!

       For he was here, and only he.

      Suck, little babe, oh suck again!

       It cools my blood; it cools my brain;

       Thy lips I feel them, baby! they

       Draw from my heart the pain away.

       Oh! press me with thy little hand;

       It loosens something at my chest;

       About that tight and deadly band

       I feel thy little fingers press’d.

       The breeze I see is in the tree;

       It comes to cool my babe and me.

      Oh! love me, love me, little boy!

       Thou art thy mother’s only joy;

       And do not dread the waves below,

       When o’er the sea-rock’s edge we go;

       The high crag cannot work me harm,

       Nor leaping torrents when they howl;

       The babe I carry on my arm,

       He saves for me my precious soul;

       Then happy lie, for blest am I;

       Without me my sweet babe would die.

      Then do not fear, my boy! for thee

       Bold as a lion I will be;

       And I will always be thy guide,

       Through hollow snows and rivers wide.

       I’ll build an Indian bower; I know

       The leaves that make the softest bed:

       And if from me thou wilt not go,

       But still be true ‘till I am dead,

       My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,

       As merry as the birds in spring.

      Thy father cares not for my breast,

       ‘Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:

       ‘Tis all thine own! and if its hue

       Be changed, that was so fair to view,

      

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