While, with increasing agitation, 225
  The Woman urged her supplication,
  In rueful words, with sobs between—­
  The voice of tears that fell unseen; [30]
  There came a flash—­a startling glare,
  And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare! 230
  ’Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
  And Benjamin, without a question,
  Taking her for some way-worn rover, [31]
  Said, “Mount, and get you under cover!”
  Another voice, in tone as hoarse 235
  As a swoln brook with rugged course,
  Cried out, “Good brother, why so fast? 
  I’ve had a glimpse of you—­’avast!’
  Or, since it suits you to be civil,
  Take her at once—­for good and evil!” 240

  “It is my Husband,” softly said
  The Woman, as if half afraid: 
  By this time she was snug within,
  Through help of honest Benjamin;
  She and her Babe, which to her breast 245
  With thankfulness the Mother pressed;
  And now the same strong voice more near
  Said cordially, “My Friend, what cheer? 
  Rough doings these! as God’s my judge,
  The sky owes somebody a grudge! 250
  We’ve had in half an hour or less
  A twelvemonth’s terror [32] and distress!”

  Then Benjamin entreats the Man
  Would mount, too, quickly as he can: 
  The Sailor—­Sailor now no more, 255
  But such he had been heretofore—­
  To courteous Benjamin replied,
  “Go you your way, and mind not me;
  For I must have, whate’er betide,
  My Ass and fifty things beside,—­260
  Go, and I’ll follow speedily!”

  The Waggon moves—­and with its load
  Descends along the sloping road;
  And the rough Sailor instantly
  Turns to a little tent hard by:  [33] 265
  For when, at closing-in of day,
  The family had come that way,
  Green pasture and the soft warm air
  Tempted [34] them to settle there.—­
  Green is the grass for beast to graze, 270
  Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

  The Sailor gathers up his bed,
  Takes down the canvass overhead;
  And, after farewell to the place,
  A parting word—­though not of grace, 275
  Pursues, with Ass and all his store,
  The way the Waggon went before.

CANTO SECOND

  If Wytheburn’s modest House of prayer,
  As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
  Had, with its belfry’s humble stock, 280
  A little pair that hang in air,
  Been mistress also of a clock,
  (And one, too, not in crazy plight)
  Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
  Under the brow of old Helvellyn—­285
  Its bead-roll of midnight,