Robert Southey

A Well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh, For from the cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the Stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. "Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." "I have left a good woman who never was here." The Stranger he made reply, "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?" "St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And before the Angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell. "If the Husband of this gifted Well Shall drink before his Wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be Master for life. "But if the Wife should drink of it first,— God help the Husband then!" The Stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. "You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?" He to the Cornish-man said: But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my Wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to Church."

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first That I never might need them at last. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are chearful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason I pray. I am chearful, young man, Father William replied, Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.

My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold, Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old; My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal, And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead, with them I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead, anon My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust.

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet, 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground. Every day the starving poor Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, For he had a plentiful last-year's store, And all the neighbourhood could tell His granaries were furnish'd well. At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day To quiet the poor without delay; He bade them to his great Barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, The poor folk flock'd from far and near; The great barn was full as it could hold Of women and children, and young and old. Then when he saw it could hold no more, Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; And while for mercy on Christ they call, He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. "I'faith 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he, "And the country is greatly obliged to me, For ridding it in these times forlorn Of Rats that only consume the corn." So then to his palace returned he, And he sat down to supper merrily, And he slept that night like an innocent man; But Bishop Hatto never slept again. In the morning as he enter'd the hall Where his picture hung against the wall, A sweat like death all over him came, For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. As he look'd there came a man from his farm— He had a countenance white with alarm; "My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, And the Rats had eaten all your corn." Another came running presently, And he was pale as pale could be, "Fly! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, "Ten thousand Rats are coming this way,... The Lord forgive you for yesterday!" "I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, "'Tis the safest place in Germany; The walls are high and the shores are steep, And the stream is strong and the water deep." Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, And he crost the Rhine without delay, And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there. He laid him down and closed his eyes;... But soon a scream made him arise, He started and saw two eyes of flame On his pillow from whence the screaming came. He listen'd and look'd;... it was only the Cat; And the Bishop he grew more fearful for that, For she sat screaming, mad with fear At the Army of Rats that were drawing near. For they have swum over the river so deep, And they have climb'd the shores so steep, And up the Tower their way is bent, To do the work for which they were sent. They are not to be told by the dozen or score, By thousands they come, and by myriads and more, Such numbers had never been heard of before, Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. Down on his knees the Bishop fell, And faster and faster his beads did he tell, As louder and louder drawing near The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. And in at the windows and in at the door, And through the walls helter-skelter they pour, And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below, And all at once to the Bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the Bishop's bones: They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb, For they were sent to do judgment on him!

And wherefore do the Poor complain? The rich man asked of me,— Come walk abroad with me, I said And I will answer thee. Twas evening and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold, And we were wrapt and coated well, And yet we were a-cold. We met an old bare-headed man, His locks were few and white, I ask'd him what he did abroad In that cold winter's night: 'Twas bitter keen indeed, he said, But at home no fire had he, And therefore, he had come abroad To ask for charity. We met a young bare-footed child, And she begg'd loud and bold, I ask'd her what she did abroad When the wind it blew so cold; She said her father was at home And he lay sick a-bed, And therefore was it she was sent Abroad to beg for bread. We saw a woman sitting down Upon a stone to rest, She had a baby at her back And another at her breast; I ask'd her why she loiter'd there When the wind it was so chill; She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind be still. She told us that her husband served A soldier, far away, And therefore to her parish she Was begging back her way. We met a girl; her dress was loose And sunken was her eye, Who with the wanton's hollow voice Address'd the passers by; I ask'd her what there was in guilt That could her heart allure To shame, disease, and late remorse? She answer'd, she was poor. I turn'd me to the rich man then For silently stood he, You ask'd me why the Poor complain, And these have answer'd thee.

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war raging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, - And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay... nay... my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."