One of the “Poems founded on the Affections.”—­Ed.

  “Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away! 
  Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
  The hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds,
  And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.”

—­Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green, 5
  On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
  With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
  The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

  Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
  Filled the funeral basin [B] at Timothy’s door; [1] 10
  A coffin through Timothy’s threshold had past;
  One Child [C] did it bear, and that Child was his last.

  Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
  The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away! 
  Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut 15
  With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

  Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
  “The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.” 
  But of this in my ears not a word did he speak;
  And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek. 20

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: 

1827.

  The basin of box-wood, just six months before,
  Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door, 1800.

  The basin had offered, just six months before,
  Fresh sprigs of green box-wood at Timothy’s door; 1820.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:  Also in ‘The Morning Post’, Jan. 30, 1801.—­Ed.]

[Footnote B:  In several parts of the North of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of Sprigs of Box-wood is placed at the door of the house from which the Coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a Sprig of this Box-wood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.—­W.  W. 1800.]

[Footnote C:  In the list of errata, in the edition of 1820 “one child” is corrected, and made “a child”; but the text remained “one child” in all subsequent editions.—­Ed.]

* * * * *

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW

Composed 1800.—­Published 1800

Included among the “Poems of the Fancy.”—­Ed.

  Though the torrents from their fountains
  Roar down many a craggy steep,
  Yet they find among the mountains
  Resting-places calm and deep.

  Clouds that love through air to hasten, 5
  Ere the storm its fury stills,
  Helmet-like themselves will fasten
  On the heads of towering hills. [1]