His heart misgives him to think of the rheumatism that must befall in such a way of living; and his grave sense of civilization, bourgeois in the humane and noble way that is his own, restores her after death to the company of man, to the “holy bell,” which Shakespeare’s Duke remembered in banishment, and to the congregation and their “Christian psalm.”

The older poets were less responsible, less serious and more sad, than Wordsworth, when they in turn were touched by the fancy of the maid crazed by love.  They left her to her light immortality; and she might be drenched in dews; they would not desire to reconcile nor bury her.  She might have her hair torn by the bramble, but her heart was light after trouble.  “Many light hearts and wings”—­she had at least the bird’s heart, and the poet lent to her voice the wings of his verses.

There is nothing in our poetry less modern than she.  The vagrant woman of later feeling was rather the sane creature of Ebenezer Elliott’s fine lines in “The Excursion”—­

   Bone-weary, many-childed, trouble-tried! 
   Wife of my bosom, wedded to my soul!

Trouble did not “try” the Elizabethan wild one, it undid her.  She had no child, or if there had ever been a child of hers, she had long forgotten how it died.  She hailed the wayfarer, who was more weary than she, with a song; she haunted the cheerful dawn; her “good-morrow” rings from Herrick’s poem, fresh as cock-crow.  She knows that her love is dead, and her perplexity has regard rather to the many kinds of flowers than to the old story of his death; they distract her in the splendid meadows.

All the tragic world paused to hear that lightest of songs, as the tragedy of Hamlet pauses for the fitful voice of Ophelia.  Strange was the charm of this perpetual alien, and unknown to us now.  The world has become once again as it was in the mad maid’s heyday, less serious and more sad than Wordsworth; but it has not recovered, and perhaps will never recover, that sweetness.  Blake’s was a more starry madness.  Crabbe, writing of village sorrows, thought himself bound to recur to the legend of the mad maid, but his “crazed maiden” is sane enough, sorrowful but dull, and sings of her own “burning brow,” as Herrick’s wild one never sang; nor is there any smile in her story, though she talks of flowers, or, rather, “the herbs I loved to rear”; and perhaps she is the surest of all signs that the strange inspiration of the past centuries was lost, vanished like Tom-a-Bedlam himself.  It had been wholly English, whereas the English eighteenth century was not wholly English.

It is not to be imagined that any hard Southern mind could ever have played in poetry with such a fancy; or that Petrarch, for example, could so have foregone the manifestation of intelligence and intelligible sentiment.  And as to Dante, who put the two eternities into the momentary balance of the human will, cold would be his disregard of this northern dream of innocence.  If the mad maid was an alien upon earth, what were she in the Inferno?  What word can express her strangeness there, her vagrancy there?  And with what eyes would they see this dewy face glancing in at the windows of that City?