William Wordsworth
Hart-Leap Well
from Lyrical Ballads (Volume II, 1800)
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley moor | ||
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud; | ||
He turn'd aside towards a Vassal's door, | ||
And, Bring another Horse! he cried aloud. | ||
5 | Another Horse!--That shout the Vassal heard, | |
And saddled his best steed, a comely Grey; | ||
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third | ||
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. | ||
Joy sparkeled in the prancing Courser's eyes; | ||
10 | The horse and horsemen are a happy pair; | |
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, | ||
There is a doleful silence in the air. | ||
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, | ||
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar; | ||
15 | But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all; | |
Such race, I think, was never seen before. | ||
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, | ||
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain: | ||
Brach, Swift and Music, noblest of their kind, | ||
20 | Follow, and weary up the mountain strain. | |
The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd them on | ||
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern; | ||
But breath and eye-sight fail, and, one by one, | ||
The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. | ||
25 | Where is the throng, the tumult of the chace? | |
The bugles that so joyfully were blown? | ||
-This race it looks not like an earthly race; | ||
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. | ||
The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; | ||
30 | I will not stop to tell how far he fled, | |
Nor will I mention by what death he died; | ||
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. | ||
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn; | ||
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy: | ||
35 | He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn, | |
But gaz'd upon the spoil with silent joy. | ||
Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd, | ||
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act; | ||
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd, | ||
40 | And foaming like a mountain cataract. | |
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd: | ||
His nose half-touch'd a spring beneath a hill, | ||
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd | ||
The waters of the spring were trembling still. | ||
45 | And now, too happy for repose or rest, | |
Was never man in such a joyful case, | ||
Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south and west, | ||
And gaz'd, and gaz'd upon that darling place. | ||
And turning up the hill, it was at least | ||
50 | Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found | |
Three several marks which with his hoofs the beast | ||
Had left imprinted on the verdant ground. | ||
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, Till now | ||
Such sight was never seen by living eyes: | ||
55 | Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, | |
Down to the very fountain where he lies. | ||
I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, | ||
And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; | ||
Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, | ||
60 | A place of love for damsels that are coy. | |
A cunning Artist will I have to frame | ||
A bason for that fountain in the dell; | ||
And they, who do make mention of the same, | ||
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. | ||
65 | And, gallant brute! to make thy praises known, | |
Another monument shall here be rais'd; | ||
Three several pillars, each a rough hewn stone, | ||
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graz'd. | ||
And in the summer-time when days are long, | ||
70 | I will come hither with my paramour, | |
And with the dancers, and the minstrel's song, | ||
We will make merry in that pleasant bower. | ||
Till the foundations of the mountains fail | ||
My mansion with its arbour shall endure, | ||
75 | -The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, | |
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure. | ||
Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, | ||
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. | ||
And soon the Knight perform'd what he had said, | ||
80 | The fame whereof through many a land did ring. | |
Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd, | ||
A cup of stone receiv'd the living well; | ||
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, | ||
And built a house of pleasure in the dell. | ||
85 | And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall | |
With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd, | ||
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, | ||
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. | ||
And thither, when the summer days were long, | ||
90 | Sir Walter journey'd with his paramour; | |
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song | ||
Made merriment within that pleasant bower. | ||
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, | ||
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-- | ||
95 | But there is matter for a second rhyme, | |
And I to this would add another tale. | ||
PART SECOND. | ||
The moving accident is not my trade. | ||
To curl the blood I have no ready arts; | ||
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, | ||
100 | To pipe a simple song to thinking hearts, | |
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair, | ||
It chanc'd that I saw standing in a dell | ||
Three aspins at three corners of a square, | ||
And one, not four yards distant, near a well. | ||
105 | What this imported I could ill divine, | |
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, | ||
I saw three pillars standing in a line, | ||
The last stone pillar on a dark hill-top. | ||
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head; | ||
110 | Half-wasted the square mound of tawny green; | |
So that you just might say, as then I said, | ||
Here in old time the hand of man has been. | ||
I look'd upon the hills both far and near; | ||
More doleful place did never eye survey; | ||
115 | It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here, | |
And Nature here were willing to decay. | ||
I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, | ||
When one who was in Shepherd's garb attir'd, | ||
Came up the hollow. Him did I accost, | ||
120 | And what this place might be I then inquir'd. | |
The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told | ||
Which in my former rhyme I have rehears'd. | ||
A jolly place, said he, in times of old, | ||
But something ails it now; the spot is curs'd. | ||
125 | You see these lifeless stumps of aspin wood, | |
Some say that they are beeches, others elms, | ||
These were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood, | ||
The finest palace of a hundred realms. | ||
The arbour does its own condition tell, | ||
130 | You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream, | |
But as to the great Lodge, you might as well | ||
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. | ||
There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep, | ||
Will wet his lips within that cup of stone; | ||
135 | And, oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, | |
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. | ||
Some say that here a murder has been done, | ||
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part, | ||
I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, | ||
140 | That it was all for that unhappy Hart. | |
What thoughts must through the creature's brain have pass'd! | ||
To this place from the stone upon the steep | ||
Are but three bounds, and look, Sir, at this last! | ||
O Master! it has been a cruel leap. | ||
145 | For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race; | |
And in my simple mind we cannot tell | ||
What cause the Hart might have to love this place, | ||
And come and make his death-bed near the well. | ||
Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, | ||
150 | Lull'd by this fountain in the summer-tide; | |
This water was perhaps the first he drank | ||
When he had wander'd from his mother's side. | ||
In April here beneath the scented thorn | ||
He heard the birds their morning carols sing, | ||
155 | And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born | |
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. | ||
But now here's neither grass nor pleasant shade; | ||
The sun on drearier hollow never shone: | ||
So will it be, as I have often said, | ||
160 | Till trees, and stones, and fountain all are gone. | |
Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; | ||
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine; | ||
This beast not unobserv'd by Nature fell, | ||
His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine. | ||
165 | The Being, that is in the clouds and air, | |
That is in the green leaves among the groves. | ||
Maintains a deep and reverential care | ||
For them the quiet creatures whom he loves. | ||
The Pleasure-house is dust:--behind, before, | ||
170 | This, is no common waste, no common gloom; | |
But Nature, in due course of time, once more | ||
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. | ||
She leaves these objects to a slow decay | ||
That what we are, and have been, may be known; | ||
175 | But, at the coming of the milder day, | |
These monuments shall all be overgrown. | ||
One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, | ||
Taught both by what she shews, and what conceals, | ||
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride | ||
180 | With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels. |
First published 1800