At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late 105 For cresses from the rills, Have known thee eying, all an April-day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away. 110
In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood°-- °111 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd° and shreds of grey, °114 Above the forest-ground called Thessaly°-- °115 The blackbird, picking food, Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from heaven to fall. 120
And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge, Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face tow'rd Hinksey° and its wintry ridge? °125 And thou hast climb'd the hill, And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall°-- °129 Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. °130
But what--I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil° did the tale inscribe °133 That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe; 135 And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid-- Some country-nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white-flowering nettles wave, Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's° shade. °140
--No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 145 And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen,° °147 And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius° we remit °149 Our worn-out life, and are--what we have been. 150