Lyrical Ballads with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 2. William Wordsworth

asleep, that in his sleep

        He to the margin of the precipice

        Had walk'd, and from the summit had fallen head-long,

        And so no doubt he perish'd: at the time,

        We guess, that in his hands he must have had

        His Shepherd's staff; for midway in the cliff

        It had been caught, and there for many years

        It hung – and moulder'd there.

                                      The Priest here ended —

        The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt

        Tears rushing in; both left the spot in silence,

        And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate,

        As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round,

        And, looking at the grave, he said, "My Brother."

        The Vicar did not hear the words: and now,

        Pointing towards the Cottage, he entreated

        That Leonard would partake his homely fare:

        The other thank'd him with a fervent voice,

        But added, that, the evening being calm,

        He would pursue his journey. So they parted.

        It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove

        That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short,

        And, sitting down beneath the trees, review'd

        All that the Priest had said: his early years

        Were with him in his heart: his cherish'd hopes,

        And thoughts which had been his an hour before.

        All press'd on him with such a weight, that now,

        This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd

        A place in which he could not bear to live:

        So he relinquish'd all his purposes.

        He travell'd on to Egremont; and thence,

        That night, address'd a letter to the Priest

        Reminding him of what had pass'd between them.

        And adding, with a hope to be forgiven,

        That it was from the weakness of his heart,

        He had not dared to tell him, who he was.

        This done, he went on shipboard, and is now

        A Seaman, a grey headed Mariner.

      ELLEN IRWIN,

      Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.4

        Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

        Upon the Braes of Kirtle,

        Was lovely as a Grecian Maid

        Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle.

        Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

        And there did they beguile the day

        With love and gentle speeches,

        Beneath the budding beeches.

        From many Knights and many Squires

        The Brace had been selected,

        And Gordon, fairest of them all,

        By Ellen was rejected.

        Sad tidings to that noble Youth!

        For it may be proclaim'd with truth,

        If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely,

        The Gordon loves as dearly.

        But what is Gordon's beauteous face?

        And what are Gordon's crosses

        To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes

        Upon the verdant mosses?

        Alas that ever he was born!

        The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn,

        Sees them and their caressing,

        Beholds them bless'd and blessing.

        Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts

        That through his brain are travelling,

        And, starting up, to Bruce's heart

        He launch'd a deadly jav'lin!

        Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

        And, stepping forth to meet the same,

        Did with her body cover

        The Youth her chosen lover.

        And, falling into Bruce's arms,

        Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

        Thus from the heart of her true-love

        The mortal spear repelling.

        And Bruce, as soon as he had slain

        The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain,

        And fought with rage incessant

        Against the Moorish Crescent.

        But many days and many months,

        And many years ensuing,

        This wretched Knight did vainly seek

        The death that he was wooing:

        So coming back across the wave,

        Without a groan on Ellen's grave

        His body he extended,

        And there his sorrow ended.

        Now ye who willingly have heard

        The tale I have been telling,

        May in Kirkonnel church-yard view

        The grave of lovely Ellen:

        By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid,

        And, for the stone upon his head,

        May no rude hand deface it,

        And its forlorn 'Hic jacet'.

      Strange fits of passion I have known, &c

      Strange fits of passion I have known,

        And I will dare to tell,

        But in the lover's ear alone,

        What once to me befel.

        When she I lov'd, was strong and gay

        And like a rose in June,

        I to her cottage bent my way,

        Beneath the evening moon.

        Upon the moon I fix'd my eye,

        All over the wide lea;

        My horse trudg'd on, and we drew nigh

        Those paths so dear to me.

        And now we reach'd the orchard plot,

        And, as we climb'd the hill,

        Towards the roof of Lucy's cot

        The moon descended still.

        In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

        Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

        And,

4

The Kirtle is a River in the Southern part of Scotland, on whose banks the events here related took place.