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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Sing to me, my sweet bird," said Hulda that night as she lay down to sleep. "Tell me why you pecked my wrist." Then the bird sang to her: "Who came from the ruin, the ivy-clad ruin, With old shaking arches, all moss overgrown, Where the flitter-bat hideth, The limber snake glideth, And chill water drips from the slimy green stone?" "Who did?" asked Hulda. "Not the pedlar, surely?
She scarcely knew it in the dim grey light, with hardly a sound in the streets, and there floated into her mind lines of Wordsworth's, written from this very spot at this very hour, three-quarters of a century ago "Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still!"
Then come out the people themselves, and last of all the 'prentice boys come clattering down the aisle. Let us awake. It is Sunday morning again, but the merchants are gone. The eighteenth century is gone, the church is empty, the parish is deserted; the streets are silent. Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will!
Behold, I smile myself, who foretell thee this: Thou wilt have to sing with passionate song, until all seas turn calm to hearken unto thy longing, Until over calm longing seas the bark glideth, the golden marvel, around the gold of which all good, bad, and marvellous things frisk:
A vagabond he shall be and a wolf in places where Christians pray and where heathen worship, where fire burneth, where the earth bringeth forth, where the child lispeth the name of mother, where the mother beareth a son, where men kindle fire, where the ship saileth, where shields blink, sun shineth, snow lieth, Finn glideth, fir-tree groweth, falcon flieth the live-long day and the fair wind bloweth straight under both her wings, where Heaven rolleth and earth is tilled, where the breezes waft mists to the sea, where corn is sown.
Tomorrow he hath a new belief, and the day after, one still newer. Sharp perceptions hath he, like the people, and changeable humours. To upset that meaneth with him to prove. To drive mad that meaneth with him to convince. And blood is counted by him as the best of all arguments. A truth which only glideth into fine ears, he calleth falsehood and trumpery.
Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still." Harrow St.
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